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Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, Written by Herself Author: Harriet A. Jacobs Editor: Lydia Maria Child
Catagory: History
Author:
Posted Date:11/04/2024
Posted By:utopia online

Why does the slave ever love? Why allow the tendrils of the heart to twine around objects which may at any moment be wrenched away by the hand of violence? When separations come by the hand of death, the pious soul can bow in resignation, and say, “Not my will, but thine be done, O Lord!” But when the ruthless hand of man strikes the blow, regardless of the misery he causes, it is hard to be submissive. I did not reason thus when I was a young girl. Youth will be youth. I loved, and I indulged the hope that the dark clouds around me would turn out a bright lining. I forgot that in the land of my birth the shadows are too dense for light to penetrate. A land “Where laughter is not mirth; nor thought the mind; Nor words a language; nor e’en men mankind. Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows, And each is tortured in his separate hell.” There was in the neighborhood a young colored carpenter; a free-born man. We had been well acquainted in childhood, and frequently met together afterwards. We became mutually attached, and he proposed to marry me. I loved him with all the ardor of a young girl’s first love. But when I reflected that I was a slave, and that the laws gave no sanction to the marriage of such, my heart sank within me. My lover wanted to buy me; but I knew that Dr. Flint was too wilful and arbitrary a man to consent to that arrangement. From him, I was sure of experiencing all sorts of opposition, and I had nothing to hope from my mistress. She would have been delighted to have got rid of me, but not in that way. It would have relieved her mind of a burden if she could have seen me sold to some distant state, but if I was married near home I should be just as much in her husband’s power as I had previously been,—for the husband of a slave has no power to protect her. Moreover, my mistress, like many others, seemed to think that slaves had no right to any family ties of their own; that they were created merely to wait upon the family of the mistress. I once heard her abuse a young slave girl, who told her that a colored man wanted to make her his wife. “I will have you peeled and pickled, my lady,” said she, “if I ever hear you mention that subject again. Do you suppose that I will have you tending my children with the children of that nigger?” The girl to whom she said this had a mulatto child, of course not acknowledged by its father. The poor black man who loved her would have been proud to acknowledge his helpless offspring. Many and anxious were the thoughts I revolved in my mind. I was at a loss what to do. Above all things, I was desirous to spare my lover the insults that had cut so deeply into my own soul. I talked with my grandmother about it, and partly told her my fears. I did not dare to tell her the worst. She had long suspected all was not right, and if I confirmed her suspicions I knew a storm would rise that would prove the overthrow of all my hopes. This love-dream had been my support through many trials; and I could not bear to run the risk of having it suddenly dissipated. There was a lady in the neighborhood, a particular friend of Dr. Flint’s, who often visited the house. I had a great respect for her, and she had always manifested a friendly interest in me. Grandmother thought she would have great influence with the doctor. I went to this lady, and told her my story. I told her I was aware that my lover’s being a free-born man would prove a great objection; but he wanted to buy me; and if Dr. Flint would consent to that arrangement, I felt sure he would be willing to pay any reasonable price. She knew that Mrs. Flint disliked me; therefore, I ventured to suggest that perhaps my mistress would approve of my being sold, as that would rid her of me. The lady listened with kindly sympathy, and promised to do her utmost to promote my wishes. She had an interview with the doctor, and I believe she pleaded my cause earnestly; but it was all to no purpose. How I dreaded my master now! Every minute I expected to be summoned to his presence; but the day passed, and I heard nothing from him. The next morning, a message was brought to me: “Master wants you in his study.” I found the door ajar, and I stood a moment gazing at the hateful man who claimed a right to rule me, body and soul. I entered, and tried to appear calm. I did not want him to know how my heart was bleeding. He looked fixedly at me, with an expression which seemed to say, “I have half a mind to kill you on the spot.” At last he broke the silence, and that was a relief to both of us. “So you want to be married, do you?” said he, “and to a free nigger.” “Yes, sir.” “Well, I’ll soon convince you whether I am your master, or the nigger fellow you honor so highly. If you must have a husband, you may take up with one of my slaves.” What a situation I should be in, as the wife of one of his slaves, even if my heart had been interested! I replied, “Don’t you suppose, sir, that a slave can have some preference about marrying? Do you suppose that all men are alike to her?” “Do you love this nigger?” said he, abruptly. “Yes, sir.” “How dare you tell me so!” he exclaimed, in great wrath. After a slight pause, he added, “I supposed you thought more of yourself; that you felt above the insults of such puppies.” I replied, “If he is a puppy I am a puppy, for we are both of the negro race. It is right and honorable for us to love each other. The man you call a puppy never insulted me, sir; and he would not love me if he did not believe me to be a virtuous woman.” He sprang upon me like a tiger, and gave me a stunning blow. It was the first time he had ever struck me; and fear did not enable me to control my anger. When I had recovered a little from the effects, I exclaimed, “You have struck me for answering you honestly. How I despise you!” There was silence for some minutes. Perhaps he was deciding what should be my punishment; or, perhaps, he wanted to give me time to reflect on what I had said, and to whom I had said it. Finally, he asked, “Do you know what you have said?” “Yes, sir; but your treatment drove me to it.” “Do you know that I have a right to do as I like with you,—that I can kill you, if I please?” “You have tried to kill me, and I wish you had; but you have no right to do as you like with me.” “Silence!” he exclaimed, in a thundering voice. “By heavens, girl, you forget yourself too far! Are you mad? If you are, I will soon bring you to your senses. Do you think any other master would bear what I have borne from you this morning? Many masters would have killed you on the spot. How would you like to be sent to jail for your insolence?” “I know I have been disrespectful, sir,” I replied; “but you drove me to it; I couldn’t help it. As for the jail, there would be more peace for me there than there is here.” “You deserve to go there,” said he, “and to be under such treatment, that you would forget the meaning of the word peace. It would do you good. It would take some of your high notions out of you. But I am not ready to send you there yet, notwithstanding your ingratitude for all my kindness and forbearance. You have been the plague of my life. I have wanted to make you happy, and I have been repaid with the basest ingratitude; but though you have proved yourself incapable of appreciating my kindness, I will be lenient towards you, Linda. I will give you one more chance to redeem your character. If you behave yourself and do as I require, I will forgive you and treat you as I always have done; but if you disobey me, I will punish you as I would the meanest slave on my plantation. Never let me hear that fellow’s name mentioned again. If I ever know of your speaking to him, I will cowhide you both; and if I catch him lurking about my premises, I will shoot him as soon as I would a dog. Do you hear what I say? I’ll teach you a lesson about marriage and free niggers! Now go, and let this be the last time I have occasion to speak to you on this subject.” Reader, did you ever hate? I hope not. I never did but once; and I trust I never shall again. Somebody has called it “the atmosphere of hell;” and I believe it is so. For a fortnight the doctor did not speak to me. He thought to mortify me; to make me feel that I had disgraced myself by receiving the honorable addresses of a respectable colored man, in preference to the base proposals of a white man. But though his lips disdained to address me, his eyes were very loquacious. No animal ever watched its prey more narrowly than he watched me. He knew that I could write, though he had failed to make me read his letters; and he was now troubled lest I should exchange letters with another man. After a while he became weary of silence; and I was sorry for it. One morning, as he passed through the hall, to leave the house, he contrived to thrust a note into my hand. I thought I had better read it, and spare myself the vexation of having him read it to me. It expressed regret for the blow he had given me, and reminded me that I myself was wholly to blame for it. He hoped I had become convinced of the injury I was doing myself by incurring his displeasure. He wrote that he had made up his mind to go to Louisiana; that he should take several slaves with him, and intended I should be one of the number. My mistress would remain where she was; therefore I should have nothing to fear from that quarter. If I merited kindness from him, he assured me that it would be lavishly bestowed. He begged me to think over the matter, and answer the following day. The next morning I was called to carry a pair of scissors to his room. I laid them on the table, with the letter beside them. He thought it was my answer, and did not call me back. I went as usual to attend my young mistress to and from school. He met me in the street, and ordered me to stop at his office on my way back. When I entered, he showed me his letter, and asked me why I had not answered it. I replied, “I am your daughter’s property, and it is in your power to send me, or take me, wherever you please.” He said he was very glad to find me so willing to go, and that we should start early in the autumn. He had a large practice in the town, and I rather thought he had made up the story merely to frighten me. However that might be, I was determined that I would never go to Louisiana with him. Summer passed away, and early in the autumn Dr. Flint’s eldest son was sent to Louisiana to examine the country, with a view to emigrating. That news did not disturb me. I knew very well that I should not be sent with him. That I had not been taken to the plantation before this time, was owing to the fact that his son was there. He was jealous of his son; and jealousy of the overseer had kept him from punishing me by sending me into the fields to work. Is it strange that I was not proud of these protectors? As for the overseer, he was a man for whom I had less respect than I had for a bloodhound. Young Mr. Flint did not bring back a favorable report of Louisiana, and I heard no more of that scheme. Soon after this, my lover met me at the corner of the street, and I stopped to speak to him. Looking up, I saw my master watching us from his window. I hurried home, trembling with fear. I was sent for, immediately, to go to his room. He met me with a blow. “When is mistress to be married?” said he, in a sneering tone. A shower of oaths and imprecations followed. How thankful I was that my lover was a free man! that my tyrant had no power to flog him for speaking to me in the street! Again and again I revolved in my mind how all this would end. There was no hope that the doctor would consent to sell me on any terms. He had an iron will, and was determined to keep me, and to conquer me. My lover was an intelligent and religious man. Even if he could have obtained permission to marry me while I was a slave, the marriage would give him no power to protect me from my master. It would have made him miserable to witness the insults I should have been subjected to. And then, if we had children, I knew they must “follow the condition of the mother.” What a terrible blight that would be on the heart of a free, intelligent father! For his sake, I felt that I ought not to link his fate with my own unhappy destiny. He was going to Savannah to see about a little property left him by an uncle; and hard as it was to bring my feelings to it, I earnestly entreated him not to come back. I advised him to go to the Free States, where his tongue would not be tied, and where his intelligence would be of more avail to him. He left me, still hoping the day would come when I could be bought. With me the lamp of hope had gone out. The dream of my girlhood was over. I felt lonely and desolate. Still I was not stripped of all. I still had my good grandmother, and my affectionate brother. When he put his arms round my neck, and looked into my eyes, as if to read there the troubles I dared not tell, I felt that I still had something to love. But even that pleasant emotion was chilled by the reflection that he might be torn from me at any moment, by some sudden freak of my master. If he had known how we loved each other, I think he would have exulted in separating us. We often planned together how we could get to the north. But, as William remarked, such things are easier said than done. My movements were very closely watched, and we had no means of getting any money to defray our expenses. As for grandmother, she was strongly opposed to her children’s undertaking any such project. She had not forgotten poor Benjamin’s sufferings, and she was afraid that if another child tried to escape, he would have a similar or a worse fate. To me, nothing seemed more dreadful than my present life. I said to myself, “William must be free. He shall go to the north, and I will follow him.” Many a slave sister has formed the same plans. VIII. What Slaves Are Taught To Think Of The North. Slaveholders pride themselves upon being honorable men; but if you were to hear the enormous lies they tell their slaves, you would have small respect for their veracity. I have spoken plain English. Pardon me. I cannot use a milder term. When they visit the north, and return home, they tell their slaves of the runaways they have seen, and describe them to be in the most deplorable condition. A slaveholder once told me that he had seen a runaway friend of mine in New York, and that she besought him to take her back to her master, for she was literally dying of starvation; that many days she had only one cold potato to eat, and at other times could get nothing at all. He said he refused to take her, because he knew her master would not thank him for bringing such a miserable wretch to his house. He ended by saying to me, “This is the punishment she brought on herself for running away from a kind master.” This whole story was false. I afterwards staid with that friend in New York, and found her in comfortable circumstances. She had never thought of such a thing as wishing to go back to slavery. Many of the slaves believe such stories, and think it is not worth while to exchange slavery for such a hard kind of freedom. It is difficult to persuade such that freedom could make them useful men, and enable them to protect their wives and children. If those heathen in our Christian land had as much teaching as some Hindoos, they would think otherwise. They would know that liberty is more valuable than life. They would begin to understand their own capabilities, and exert themselves to become men and women. But while the Free States sustain a law which hurls fugitives back into slavery, how can the slaves resolve to become men? There are some who strive to protect wives and daughters from the insults of their masters; but those who have such sentiments have had advantages above the general mass of slaves. They have been partially civilized and Christianized by favorable circumstances. Some are bold enough to utter such sentiments to their masters. O, that there were more of them! Some poor creatures have been so brutalized by the lash that they will sneak out of the way to give their masters free access to their wives and daughters. Do you think this proves the black man to belong to an inferior order of beings? What would you be, if you had been born and brought up a slave, with generations of slaves for ancestors? I admit that the black man is inferior. But what is it that makes him so? It is the ignorance in which white men compel him to live; it is the torturing whip that lashes manhood out of him; it is the fierce bloodhounds of the South, and the scarcely less cruel human bloodhounds of the north, who enforce the Fugitive Slave Law. They do the work. Southern gentlemen indulge in the most contemptuous expressions about the Yankees, while they, on their part, consent to do the vilest work for them, such as the ferocious bloodhounds and the despised negro-hunters are employed to do at home. When southerners go to the north, they are proud to do them honor; but the northern man is not welcome south of Mason and Dixon’s line, unless he suppresses every thought and feeling at variance with their “peculiar institution.” Nor is it enough to be silent. The masters are not pleased, unless they obtain a greater degree of subservience than that; and they are generally accommodated. Do they respect the northerner for this? I trow not. Even the slaves despise “a northern man with southern principles;” and that is the class they generally see. When northerners go to the south to reside, they prove very apt scholars. They soon imbibe the sentiments and disposition of their neighbors, and generally go beyond their teachers. Of the two, they are proverbially the hardest masters. They seem to satisfy their consciences with the doctrine that God created the Africans to be slaves. What a libel upon the heavenly Father, who “made of one blood all nations of men!” And then who are Africans? Who can measure the amount of Anglo-Saxon blood coursing in the veins of American slaves? I have spoken of the pains slaveholders take to give their slaves a bad opinion of the north; but, notwithstanding this, intelligent slaves are aware that they have many friends in the Free States. Even the most ignorant have some confused notions about it. They knew that I could read; and I was often asked if I had seen any thing in the newspapers about white folks over in the big north, who were trying to get their freedom for them. Some believe that the abolitionists have already made them free, and that it is established by law, but that their masters prevent the law from going into effect. One woman begged me to get a newspaper and read it over. She said her husband told her that the black people had sent word to the queen of ’Merica that they were all slaves; that she didn’t believe it, and went to Washington city to see the president about it. They quarrelled; she drew her sword upon him, and swore that he should help her to make them all free. That poor, ignorant woman thought that America was governed by a Queen, to whom the President was subordinate. I wish the President was subordinate to Queen Justice. IX. Sketches Of Neighboring Slaveholders. There was a planter in the country, not far from us, whom I will call Mr. Litch. He was an ill-bred, uneducated man, but very wealthy. He had six hundred slaves, many of whom he did not know by sight. His extensive plantation was managed by well-paid overseers. There was a jail and a whipping post on his grounds; and whatever cruelties were perpetrated there, they passed without comment. He was so effectually screened by his great wealth that he was called to no account for his crimes, not even for murder. Various were the punishments resorted to. A favorite one was to tie a rope round a man’s body, and suspend him from the ground. A fire was kindled over him, from which was suspended a piece of fat pork. As this cooked, the scalding drops of fat continually fell on the bare flesh. On his own plantation, he required very strict obedience to the eighth commandment. But depredations on the neighbors were allowable, provided the culprit managed to evade detection or suspicion. If a neighbor brought a charge of theft against any of his slaves, he was browbeaten by the master, who assured him that his slaves had enough of every thing at home, and had no inducement to steal. No sooner was the neighbor’s back turned, than the accused was sought out, and whipped for his lack of discretion. If a slave stole from him even a pound of meat or a peck of corn, if detection followed, he was put in chains and imprisoned, and so kept till his form was attenuated by hunger and suffering. A freshet once bore his wine cellar and meat house miles away from the plantation. Some slaves followed, and secured bits of meat and bottles of wine. Two were detected; a ham and some liquor being found in their huts. They were summoned by their master. No words were used, but a club felled them to the ground. A rough box was their coffin, and their interment was a dog’s burial. Nothing was said. Murder was so common on his plantation that he feared to be alone after nightfall. He might have believed in ghosts. His brother, if not equal in wealth, was at least equal in cruelty. His bloodhounds were well trained. Their pen was spacious, and a terror to the slaves. They were let loose on a runaway, and, if they tracked him, they literally tore the flesh from his bones. When this slaveholder died, his shrieks and groans were so frightful that they appalled his own friends. His last words were, “I am going to hell; bury my money with me.” After death his eyes remained open. To press the lids down, silver dollars were laid on them. These were buried with him. From this circumstance, a rumor went abroad that his coffin was filled with money. Three times his grave was opened, and his coffin taken out. The last time, his body was found on the ground, and a flock of buzzards were pecking at it. He was again interred, and a sentinel set over his grave. The perpetrators were never discovered. Cruelty is contagious in uncivilized communities. Mr. Conant, a neighbor of Mr. Litch, returned from town one evening in a partial state of intoxication. His body servant gave him some offence. He was divested of his clothes, except his shirt, whipped, and tied to a large tree in front of the house. It was a stormy night in winter. The wind blew bitterly cold, and the boughs of the old tree crackled under falling sleet. A member of the family, fearing he would freeze to death, begged that he might be taken down; but the master would not relent. He remained there three hours; and, when he was cut down, he was more dead than alive. Another slave, who stole a pig from this master, to appease his hunger, was terribly flogged. In desperation, he tried to run away. But at the end of two miles, he was so faint with loss of blood, he thought he was dying. He had a wife, and he longed to see her once more. Too sick to walk, he crept back that long distance on his hands and knees. When he reached his master’s, it was night. He had not strength to rise and open the gate. He moaned, and tried to call for help. I had a friend living in the same family. At last his cry reached her. She went out and found the prostrate man at the gate. She ran back to the house for assistance, and two men returned with her. They carried him in, and laid him on the floor. The back of his shirt was one clot of blood. By means of lard, my friend loosened it from the raw flesh. She bandaged him, gave him cool drink, and left him to rest. The master said he deserved a hundred more lashes. When his own labor was stolen from him, he had stolen food to appease his hunger. This was his crime. Another neighbor was a Mrs. Wade. At no hour of the day was there cessation of the lash on her premises. Her labors began with the dawn, and did not cease till long after nightfall. The barn was her particular place of torture. There she lashed the slaves with the might of a man. An old slave of hers once said to me, “It is hell in missis’s house. ’Pears I can never get out. Day and night I prays to die.” The mistress died before the old woman, and, when dying, entreated her husband not to permit any one of her slaves to look on her after death. A slave who had nursed her children, and had still a child in her care, watched her chance, and stole with it in her arms to the room where lay her dead mistress. She gazed a while on her, then raised her hand and dealt two blows on her face, saying, as she did so, “The devil is got you now!” She forgot that the child was looking on. She had just begun to talk; and she said to her father, “I did see ma, and mammy did strike ma, so,” striking her own face with her little hand. The master was startled. He could not imagine how the nurse could obtain access to the room where the corpse lay; for he kept the door locked. He questioned her. She confessed that what the child had said was true, and told how she had procured the key. She was sold to Georgia. In my childhood I knew a valuable slave, named Charity, and loved her, as all children did. Her young mistress married, and took her to Louisiana. Her little boy, James, was sold to a good sort of master. He became involved in debt, and James was sold again to a wealthy slaveholder, noted for his cruelty. With this man he grew up to manhood, receiving the treatment of a dog. After a severe whipping, to save himself from further infliction of the lash, with which he was threatened, he took to the woods. He was in a most miserable condition—cut by the cowskin, half naked, half starved, and without the means of procuring a crust of bread. Some weeks after his escape, he was captured, tied, and carried back to his master’s plantation. This man considered punishment in his jail, on bread and water, after receiving hundreds of lashes, too mild for the poor slave’s offence. Therefore he decided, after the overseer should have whipped him to his satisfaction, to have him placed between the screws of the cotton gin, to stay as long as he had been in the woods. This wretched creature was cut with the whip from his head to his feet, then washed with strong brine, to prevent the flesh from mortifying, and make it heal sooner than it otherwise would. He was then put into the cotton gin, which was screwed down, only allowing him room to turn on his side when he could not lie on his back. Every morning a slave was sent with a piece of bread and bowl of water, which were placed within reach of the poor fellow. The slave was charged, under penalty of severe punishment, not to speak to him. Four days passed, and the slave continued to carry the bread and water. On the second morning, he found the bread gone, but the water untouched. When he had been in the press four days and five nights, the slave informed his master that the water had not been used for four mornings, and that a horrible stench came from the gin house. The overseer was sent to examine into it. When the press was unscrewed, the dead body was found partly eaten by rats and vermin. Perhaps the rats that devoured his bread had gnawed him before life was extinct. Poor Charity! Grandmother and I often asked each other how her affectionate heart would bear the news, if she should ever hear of the murder of her son. We had known her husband, and knew that James was like him in manliness and intelligence. These were the qualities that made it so hard for him to be a plantation slave. They put him into a rough box, and buried him with less feeling than would have been manifested for an old house dog. Nobody asked any questions. He was a slave; and the feeling was that the master had a right to do what he pleased with his own property. And what did he care for the value of a slave? He had hundreds of them. When they had finished their daily toil, they must hurry to eat their little morsels, and be ready to extinguish their pine knots before nine o’clock, when the overseer went his patrol rounds. He entered every cabin, to see that men and their wives had gone to bed together, lest the men, from over-fatigue, should fall asleep in the chimney corner, and remain there till the morning horn called them to their daily task. Women are considered of no value, unless they continually increase their owner’s stock. They are put on a par with animals. This same master shot a woman through the head, who had run away and been brought back to him. No one called him to account for it. If a slave resisted being whipped, the bloodhounds were unpacked, and set upon him, to tear his flesh from his bones. The master who did these things was highly educated, and styled a perfect gentleman. He also boasted the name and standing of a Christian, though Satan never had a truer follower. I could tell of more slaveholders as cruel as those I have described. They are not exceptions to the general rule. I do not say there are no humane slaveholders. Such characters do exist, notwithstanding the hardening influences around them. But they are “like angels’ visits—few and far between.” I knew a young lady who was one of these rare specimens. She was an orphan, and inherited as slaves a woman and her six children. Their father was a free man. They had a comfortable home of their own, parents and children living together. The mother and eldest daughter served their mistress during the day, and at night returned to their dwelling, which was on the premises. The young lady was very pious, and there was some reality in her religion. She taught her slaves to lead pure lives, and wished them to enjoy the fruit of their own industry. Her religion was not a garb put on for Sunday, and laid aside till Sunday returned again. The eldest daughter of the slave mother was promised in marriage to a free man; and the day before the wedding this good mistress emancipated her, in order that her marriage might have the sanction of law. Report said that this young lady cherished an unrequited affection for a man who had resolved to marry for wealth. In the course of time a rich uncle of hers died. He left six thousand dollars to his two sons by a colored woman, and the remainder of his property to this orphan niece. The metal soon attracted the magnet. The lady and her weighty purse became his. She offered to manumit her slaves—telling them that her marriage might make unexpected changes in their destiny, and she wished to insure their happiness. They refused to take their freedom, saying that she had always been their best friend, and they could not be so happy any where as with her. I was not surprised. I had often seen them in their comfortable home, and thought that the whole town did not contain a happier family. They had never felt slavery; and, when it was too late, they were convinced of its reality. When the new master claimed this family as his property, the father became furious, and went to his mistress for protection. “I can do nothing for you now, Harry,” said she. “I no longer have the power I had a week ago. I have succeeded in obtaining the freedom of your wife; but I cannot obtain it for your children.” The unhappy father swore that nobody should take his children from him. He concealed them in the woods for some days; but they were discovered and taken. The father was put in jail, and the two oldest boys sold to Georgia. One little girl, too young to be of service to her master, was left with the wretched mother. The other three were carried to their master’s plantation. The eldest soon became a mother, and, when the slaveholder’s wife looked at the babe, she wept bitterly. She knew that her own husband had violated the purity she had so carefully inculcated. She had a second child by her master, and then he sold her and his offspring to his brother. She bore two children to the brother, and was sold again. The next sister went crazy. The life she was compelled to lead drove her mad. The third one became the mother of five daughters. Before the birth of the fourth the pious mistress died. To the last, she rendered every kindness to the slaves that her unfortunate circumstances permitted. She passed away peacefully, glad to close her eyes on a life which had been made so wretched by the man she loved. This man squandered the fortune he had received, and sought to retrieve his affairs by a second marriage; but, having retired after a night of drunken debauch, he was found dead in the morning. He was called a good master; for he fed and clothed his slaves better than most masters, and the lash was not heard on his plantation so frequently as on many others. Had it not been for slavery, he would have been a better man, and his wife a happier woman. No pen can give an adequate description of the all-pervading corruption produced by slavery. The slave girl is reared in an atmosphere of licentiousness and fear. The lash and the foul talk of her master and his sons are her teachers. When she is fourteen or fifteen, her owner, or his sons, or the overseer, or perhaps all of them, begin to bribe her with presents. If these fail to accomplish their purpose, she is whipped or starved into submission to their will. She may have had religious principles inculcated by some pious mother or grandmother, or some good mistress; she may have a lover, whose good opinion and peace of mind are dear to her heart; or the profligate men who have power over her may be exceedingly odious to her. But resistance is hopeless. “The poor worm Shall prove her contest vain. Life’s little day Shall pass, and she is gone!” The slaveholder’s sons are, of course, vitiated, even while boys, by the unclean influences every where around them. Nor do the master’s daughters always escape. Severe retributions sometimes come upon him for the wrongs he does to the daughters of the slaves. The white daughters early hear their parents quarrelling about some female slave. Their curiosity is excited, and they soon learn the cause. They are attended by the young slave girls whom their father has corrupted; and they hear such talk as should never meet youthful ears, or any other ears. They know that the women slaves are subject to their father’s authority in all things; and in some cases they exercise the same authority over the men slaves. I have myself seen the master of such a household whose head was bowed down in shame; for it was known in the neighborhood that his daughter had selected one of the meanest slaves on his plantation to be the father of his first grandchild. She did not make her advances to her equals, nor even to her father’s more intelligent servants. She selected the most brutalized, over whom her authority could be exercised with less fear of exposure. Her father, half frantic with rage, sought to revenge himself on the offending black man; but his daughter, foreseeing the storm that would arise, had given him free papers, and sent him out of the state. In such cases the infant is smothered, or sent where it is never seen by any who know its history. But if the white parent is the father, instead of the mother, the offspring are unblushingly reared for the market. If they are girls, I have indicated plainly enough what will be their inevitable destiny. You may believe what I say; for I write only that whereof I know. I was twenty-one years in that cage of obscene birds. I can testify, from my own experience and observation, that slavery is a curse to the whites as well as to the blacks. It makes the white fathers cruel and sensual; the sons violent and licentious; it contaminates the daughters, and makes the wives wretched. And as for the colored race, it needs an abler pen than mine to describe the extremity of their sufferings, the depth of their degradation. Yet few slaveholders seem to be aware of the widespread moral ruin occasioned by this wicked system. Their talk is of blighted cotton crops—not of the blight on their children’s souls. If you want to be fully convinced of the abominations of slavery, go on a southern plantation, and call yourself a negro trader. Then there will be no concealment; and you will see and hear things that will seem to you impossible among human beings with immortal souls. X. A Perilous Passage In The Slave Girl’s Life. After my lover went away, Dr. Flint contrived a new plan. He seemed to have an idea that my fear of my mistress was his greatest obstacle. In the blandest tones, he told me that he was going to build a small house for me, in a secluded place, four miles away from the town. I shuddered; but I was constrained to listen, while he talked of his intention to give me a home of my own, and to make a lady of me. Hitherto, I had escaped my dreaded fate, by being in the midst of people. My grandmother had already had high words with my master about me. She had told him pretty plainly what she thought of his character, and there was considerable gossip in the neighborhood about our affairs, to which the open-mouthed jealousy of Mrs. Flint contributed not a little. When my master said he was going to build a house for me, and that he could do it with little trouble and expense, I was in hopes something would happen to frustrate his scheme; but I soon heard that the house was actually begun. I vowed before my Maker that I would never enter it. I had rather toil on the plantation from dawn till dark; I had rather live and die in jail, than drag on, from day to day, through such a living death. I was determined that the master, whom I so hated and loathed, who had blighted the prospects of my youth, and made my life a desert, should not, after my long struggle with him, succeed at last in trampling his victim under his feet. I would do any thing, every thing, for the sake of defeating him. What could I do? I thought and thought, till I became desperate, and made a plunge into the abyss. And now, reader, I come to a period in my unhappy life, which I would gladly forget if I could. The remembrance fills me with sorrow and shame. It pains me to tell you of it; but I have promised to tell you the truth, and I will do it honestly, let it cost me what it may. I will not try to screen myself behind the plea of compulsion from a master; for it was not so. Neither can I plead ignorance or thoughtlessness. For years, my master had done his utmost to pollute my mind with foul images, and to destroy the pure principles inculcated by my grandmother, and the good mistress of my childhood. The influences of slavery had had the same effect on me that they had on other young girls; they had made me prematurely knowing, concerning the evil ways of the world. I knew what I did, and I did it with deliberate calculation. But, O, ye happy women, whose purity has been sheltered from childhood, who have been free to choose the objects of your affection, whose homes are protected by law, do not judge the poor desolate slave girl too severely! If slavery had been abolished, I, also, could have married the man of my choice; I could have had a home shielded by the laws; and I should have been spared the painful task of confessing what I am now about to relate; but all my prospects had been blighted by slavery. I wanted to keep myself pure; and, under the most adverse circumstances, I tried hard to preserve my self-respect; but I was struggling alone in the powerful grasp of the demon Slavery; and the monster proved too strong for me. I felt as if I was forsaken by God and man; as if all my efforts must be frustrated; and I became reckless in my despair. I have told you that Dr. Flint’s persecutions and his wife’s jealousy had given rise to some gossip in the neighborhood. Among others, it chanced that a white unmarried gentleman had obtained some knowledge of the circumstances in which I was placed. He knew my grandmother, and often spoke to me in the street. He became interested for me, and asked questions about my master, which I answered in part. He expressed a great deal of sympathy, and a wish to aid me. He constantly sought opportunities to see me, and wrote to me frequently. I was a poor slave girl, only fifteen years old. So much attention from a superior person was, of course, flattering; for human nature is the same in all. I also felt grateful for his sympathy, and encouraged by his kind words. It seemed to me a great thing to have such a friend. By degrees, a more tender feeling crept into my heart. He was an educated and eloquent gentleman; too eloquent, alas, for the poor slave girl who trusted in him. Of course I saw whither all this was tending. I knew the impassable gulf between us; but to be an object of interest to a man who is not married, and who is not her master, is agreeable to the pride and feelings of a slave, if her miserable situation has left her any pride or sentiment. It seems less degrading to give one’s self, than to submit to compulsion. There is something akin to freedom in having a lover who has no control over you, except that which he gains by kindness and attachment. A master may treat you as rudely as he pleases, and you dare not speak; moreover, the wrong does not seem so great with an unmarried man, as with one who has a wife to be made unhappy. There may be sophistry in all this; but the condition of a slave confuses all principles of morality, and, in fact, renders the practice of them impossible. When I found that my master had actually begun to build the lonely cottage, other feelings mixed with those I have described. Revenge, and calculations of interest, were added to flattered vanity and sincere gratitude for kindness. I knew nothing would enrage Dr. Flint so much as to know that I favored another; and it was something to triumph over my tyrant even in that small way. I thought he would revenge himself by selling me, and I was sure my friend, Mr. Sands, would buy me. He was a man of more generosity and feeling than my master, and I thought my freedom could be easily obtained from him. The crisis of my fate now came so near that I was desperate. I shuddered to think of being the mother of children that should be owned by my old tyrant. I knew that as soon as a new fancy took him, his victims were sold far off to get rid of them; especially if they had children. I had seen several women sold, with his babies at the breast. He never allowed his offspring by slaves to remain long in sight of himself and his wife. Of a man who was not my master I could ask to have my children well supported; and in this case, I felt confident I should obtain the boon. I also felt quite sure that they would be made free. With all these thoughts revolving in my mind, and seeing no other way of escaping the doom I so much dreaded, I made a headlong plunge. Pity me, and pardon me, O virtuous reader! You never knew what it is to be a slave; to be entirely unprotected by law or custom; to have the laws reduce you to the condition of a chattel, entirely subject to the will of another. You never exhausted your ingenuity in avoiding the snares, and eluding the power of a hated tyrant; you never shuddered at the sound of his footsteps, and trembled within hearing of his voice. I know I did wrong. No one can feel it more sensibly than I do. The painful and humiliating memory will haunt me to my dying day. Still, in looking back, calmly, on the events of my life, I feel that the slave woman ought not to be judged by the same standard as others. The months passed on. I had many unhappy hours. I secretly mourned over the sorrow I was bringing on my grandmother, who had so tried to shield me from harm. I knew that I was the greatest comfort of her old age, and that it was a source of pride to her that I had not degraded myself, like most of the slaves. I wanted to confess to her that I was no longer worthy of her love; but I could not utter the dreaded words. As for Dr. Flint, I had a feeling of satisfaction and triumph in the thought of telling him. From time to time he told me of his intended arrangements, and I was silent. At last, he came and told me the cottage was completed, and ordered me to go to it. I told him I would never enter it. He said, “I have heard enough of such talk as that. You shall go, if you are carried by force; and you shall remain there.” I replied, “I will never go there. In a few months I shall be a mother.” He stood and looked at me in dumb amazement, and left the house without a word. I thought I should be happy in my triumph over him. But now that the truth was out, and my relatives would hear of it, I felt wretched. Humble as were their circumstances, they had pride in my good character. Now, how could I look them in the face? My self-respect was gone! I had resolved that I would be virtuous, though I was a slave. I had said, “Let the storm beat! I will brave it till I die.” And now, how humiliated I felt! I went to my grandmother. My lips moved to make confession, but the words stuck in my throat. I sat down in the shade of a tree at her door and began to sew. I think she saw something unusual was the matter with me. The mother of slaves is very watchful. She knows there is no security for her children. After they have entered their teens she lives in daily expectation of trouble. This leads to many questions. If the girl is of a sensitive nature, timidity keeps her from answering truthfully, and this well-meant course has a tendency to drive her from maternal counsels. Presently, in came my mistress, like a mad woman, and accused me concerning her husband. My grandmother, whose suspicions had been previously awakened, believed what she said. She exclaimed, “O Linda! has it come to this? I had rather see you dead than to see you as you now are. You are a disgrace to your dead mother.” She tore from my fingers my mother’s wedding ring and her silver thimble. “Go away!” she exclaimed, “and never come to my house, again.” Her reproaches fell so hot and heavy, that they left me no chance to answer. Bitter tears, such as the eyes never shed but once, were my only answer. I rose from my seat, but fell back again, sobbing. She did not speak to me; but the tears were running down her furrowed cheeks, and they scorched me like fire. She had always been so kind to me! So kind! How I longed to throw myself at her feet, and tell her all the truth! But she had ordered me to go, and never to come there again. After a few minutes, I mustered strength, and started to obey her. With what feelings did I now close that little gate, which I used to open with such an eager hand in my childhood! It closed upon me with a sound I never heard before. Where could I go? I was afraid to return to my master’s. I walked on recklessly, not caring where I went, or what would become of me. When I had gone four or five miles, fatigue compelled me to stop. I sat down on the stump of an old tree. The stars were shining through the boughs above me. How they mocked me, with their bright, calm light! The hours passed by, and as I sat there alone a chilliness and deadly sickness came over me. I sank on the ground. My mind was full of horrid thoughts. I prayed to die; but the prayer was not answered. At last, with great effort I roused myself, and walked some distance further, to the house of a woman who had been a friend of my mother. When I told her why I was there, she spoke soothingly to me; but I could not be comforted. I thought I could bear my shame if I could only be reconciled to my grandmother. I longed to open my heart to her. I thought if she could know the real state of the case, and all I had been bearing for years, she would perhaps judge me less harshly. My friend advised me to send for her. I did so; but days of agonizing suspense passed before she came. Had she utterly forsaken me? No. She came at last. I knelt before her, and told her the things that had poisoned my life; how long I had been persecuted; that I saw no way of escape; and in an hour of extremity I had become desperate. She listened in silence. I told her I would bear any thing and do any thing, if in time I had hopes of obtaining her forgiveness. I begged of her to pity me, for my dead mother’s sake. And she did pity me. She did not say, “I forgive you;” but she looked at me lovingly, with her eyes full of tears. She laid her old hand gently on my head, and murmured, “Poor child! Poor child!” XI. The New Tie To Life. I returned to my good grandmother’s house. She had an interview with Mr. Sands. When she asked him why he could not have left her one ewe lamb,—whether there were not plenty of slaves who did not care about character,—he made no answer; but he spoke kind and encouraging words. He promised to care for my child, and to buy me, be the conditions what they might. I had not seen Dr. Flint for five days. I had never seen him since I made the avowal to him. He talked of the disgrace I had brought on myself; how I had sinned against my master, and mortified my old grandmother. He intimated that if I had accepted his proposals, he, as a physician, could have saved me from exposure. He even condescended to pity me. Could he have offered wormwood more bitter? He, whose persecutions had been the cause of my sin! “Linda,” said he, “though you have been criminal towards me, I feel for you, and I can pardon you if you obey my wishes. Tell me whether the fellow you wanted to marry is the father of your child. If you deceive me, you shall feel the fires of hell.” I did not feel as proud as I had done. My strongest weapon with him was gone. I was lowered in my own estimation, and had resolved to bear his abuse in silence. But when he spoke contemptuously of the lover who had always treated me honorably; when I remembered that but for him I might have been a virtuous, free, and happy wife, I lost my patience. “I have sinned against God and myself,” I replied; “but not against you.” He clinched his teeth, and muttered, “Curse you!” He came towards me, with ill-suppressed rage, and exclaimed, “You obstinate girl! I could grind your bones to powder! You have thrown yourself away on some worthless rascal. You are weak-minded, and have been easily persuaded by those who don’t care a straw for you. The future will settle accounts between us. You are blinded now; but hereafter you will be convinced that your master was your best friend. My lenity towards you is a proof of it. I might have punished you in many ways. I might have had you whipped till you fell dead under the lash. But I wanted you to live; I would have bettered your condition. Others cannot do it. You are my slave. Your mistress, disgusted by your conduct, forbids you to return to the house; therefore I leave you here for the present; but I shall see you often. I will call to-morrow.” He came with frowning brows, that showed a dissatisfied state of mind. After asking about my health, he inquired whether my board was paid, and who visited me. He then went on to say that he had neglected his duty; that as a physician there were certain things that he ought to have explained to me. Then followed talk such as would have made the most shameless blush. He ordered me to stand up before him. I obeyed. “I command you,” said he, “to tell me whether the father of your child is white or black.” I hesitated. “Answer me this instant!” he exclaimed. I did answer. He sprang upon me like a wolf, and grabbed my arm as if he would have broken it. “Do you love him?” said he, in a hissing tone. “I am thankful that I do not despise him,” I replied. He raised his hand to strike me; but it fell again. I don’t know what arrested the blow. He sat down, with lips tightly compressed. At last he spoke. “I came here,” said he, “to make you a friendly proposition; but your ingratitude chafes me beyond endurance. You turn aside all my good intentions towards you. I don’t know what it is that keeps me from killing you.” Again he rose, as if he had a mind to strike me. But he resumed. “On one condition I will forgive your insolence and crime. You must henceforth have no communication of any kind with the father of your child. You must not ask any thing from him, or receive any thing from him. I will take care of you and your child. You had better promise this at once, and not wait till you are deserted by him. This is the last act of mercy I shall show towards you.” I said something about being unwilling to have my child supported by a man who had cursed it and me also. He rejoined, that a woman who had sunk to my level had no right to expect any thing else. He asked, for the last time, would I accept his kindness? I answered that I would not. “Very well,” said he; “then take the consequences of your wayward course. Never look to me for help. You are my slave, and shall always be my slave. I will never sell you, that you may depend upon.” Hope died away in my heart as he closed the door after him. I had calculated that in his rage he would sell me to a slave-trader; and I knew the father of my child was on the watch to buy me. About this time my uncle Phillip was expected to return from a voyage. The day before his departure I had officiated as bridesmaid to a young friend. My heart was then ill at ease, but my smiling countenance did not betray it. Only a year had passed; but what fearful changes it had wrought! My heart had grown gray in misery. Lives that flash in sunshine, and lives that are born in tears, receive their hue from circumstances. None of us know what a year may bring forth. I felt no joy when they told me my uncle had come. He wanted to see me, though he knew what had happened. I shrank from him at first; but at last consented that he should come to my room. He received me as he always had done. O, how my heart smote me when I felt his tears on my burning cheeks! The words of my grandmother came to my mind,—“Perhaps your mother and father are taken from the evil days to come.” My disappointed heart could now praise God that it was so. But why, thought I, did my relatives ever cherish hopes for me? What was there to save me from the usual fate of slave girls? Many more beautiful and more intelligent than I had experienced a similar fate, or a far worse one. How could they hope that I should escape? My uncle’s stay was short, and I was not sorry for it. I was too ill in mind and body to enjoy my friends as I had done. For some weeks I was unable to leave my bed. I could not have any doctor but my master, and I would not have him sent for. At last, alarmed by my increasing illness, they sent for him. I was very weak and nervous; and as soon as he entered the room, I began to scream. They told him my state was very critical. He had no wish to hasten me out of the world, and he withdrew. When my babe was born, they said it was premature. It weighed only four pounds; but God let it live. I heard the doctor say I could not survive till morning. I had often prayed for death; but now I did not want to die, unless my child could die too. Many weeks passed before I was able to leave my bed. I was a mere wreck of my former self. For a year there was scarcely a day when I was free from chills and fever. My babe also was sickly. His little limbs were often racked with pain. Dr. Flint continued his visits, to look after my health; and he did not fail to remind me that my child was an addition to his stock of slaves. I felt too feeble to dispute with him, and listened to his remarks in silence. His visits were less frequent; but his busy spirit could not remain quiet. He employed my brother in his office, and he was made the medium of frequent notes and messages to me. William was a bright lad, and of much use to the doctor. He had learned to put up medicines, to leech, cup, and bleed. He had taught himself to read and spell. I was proud of my brother; and the old doctor suspected as much. One day, when I had not seen him for several weeks, I heard his steps approaching the door. I dreaded the encounter, and hid myself. He inquired for me, of course; but I was nowhere to be found. He went to his office, and despatched William with a note. The color mounted to my brother’s face when he gave it to me; and he said, “Don’t you hate me, Linda, for bringing you these things?” I told him I could not blame him; he was a slave, and obliged to obey his master’s will. The note ordered me to come to his office. I went. He demanded to know where I was when he called. I told him I was at home. He flew into a passion, and said he knew better. Then he launched out upon his usual themes,—my crimes against him, and my ingratitude for his forbearance. The laws were laid down to me anew, and I was dismissed. I felt humiliated that my brother should stand by, and listen to such language as would be addressed only to a slave. Poor boy! He was powerless to defend me; but I saw the tears, which he vainly strove to keep back. This manifestation of feeling irritated the doctor. William could do nothing to please him. One morning he did not arrive at the office so early as usual; and that circumstance afforded his master an opportunity to vent his spleen. He was put in jail. The next day my brother sent a trader to the doctor, with a request to be sold. His master was greatly incensed at what he called his insolence. He said he had put him there to reflect upon his bad conduct, and he certainly was not giving any evidence of repentance. For two days he harassed himself to find somebody to do his office work; but every thing went wrong without William. He was released, and ordered to take his old stand, with many threats, if he was not careful about his future behavior. As the months passed on, my boy improved in health. When he was a year old, they called him beautiful. The little vine was taking deep root in my existence, though its clinging fondness excited a mixture of love and pain. When I was most sorely oppressed I found a solace in his smiles. I loved to watch his infant slumbers; but always there was a dark cloud over my enjoyment. I could never forget that he was a slave. Sometimes I wished that he might die in infancy. God tried me. My darling became very ill. The bright eyes grew dull, and the little feet and hands were so icy cold that I thought death had already touched them. I had prayed for his death, but never so earnestly as I now prayed for his life; and my prayer was heard. Alas, what mockery it is for a slave mother to try to pray back her dying child to life! Death is better than slavery. It was a sad thought that I had no name to give my child. His father caressed him and treated him kindly, whenever he had a chance to see him. He was not unwilling that he should bear his name; but he had no legal claim to it; and if I had bestowed it upon him, my master would have regarded it as a new crime, a new piece of insolence, and would, perhaps, revenge it on the boy. O, the serpent of Slavery has many and poisonous fangs! XII. Fear Of Insurrection. Not far from this time Nat Turner’s insurrection broke out; and the news threw our town into great commotion. Strange that they should be alarmed, when their slaves were so “contented and happy”! But so it was. It was always the custom to have a muster every year. On that occasion every white man shouldered his musket. The citizens and the so-called country gentlemen wore military uniforms. The poor whites took their places in the ranks in every-day dress, some without shoes, some without hats. This grand occasion had already passed; and when the slaves were told there was to be another muster, they were surprised and rejoiced. Poor creatures! They thought it was going to be a holiday. I was informed of the true state of affairs, and imparted it to the few I could trust. Most gladly would I have proclaimed it to every slave; but I dared not. All could not be relied on. Mighty is the power of the torturing lash. By sunrise, people were pouring in from every quarter within twenty miles of the town. I knew the houses were to be searched; and I expected it would be done by country bullies and the poor whites. I knew nothing annoyed them so much as to see colored people living in comfort and respectability; so I made arrangements for them with especial care. I arranged every thing in my grandmother’s house as neatly as possible. I put white quilts on the beds, and decorated some of the rooms with flowers. When all was arranged, I sat down at the window to watch. Far as my eye could reach, it rested on a motley crowd of soldiers. Drums and fifes were discoursing martial music. The men were divided into companies of sixteen, each headed by a captain. Orders were given, and the wild scouts rushed in every direction, wherever a colored face was to be found. It was a grand opportunity for the low whites, who had no negroes of their own to scourge. They exulted in such a chance to exercise a little brief authority, and show their subserviency to the slaveholders; not reflecting that the power which trampled on the colored people also kept themselves in poverty, ignorance, and moral degradation. Those who never witnessed such scenes can hardly believe what I know was inflicted at this time on innocent men, women, and children, against whom there was not the slightest ground for suspicion. Colored people and slaves who lived in remote parts of the town suffered in an especial manner. In some cases the searchers scattered powder and shot among their clothes, and then sent other parties to find them, and bring them forward as proof that they were plotting insurrection. Every where men, women, and children were whipped till the blood stood in puddles at their feet. Some received five hundred lashes; others were tied hands and feet, and tortured with a bucking paddle, which blisters the skin terribly. The dwellings of the colored people, unless they happened to be protected by some influential white person, who was nigh at hand, were robbed of clothing and every thing else the marauders thought worth carrying away. All day long these unfeeling wretches went round, like a troop of demons, terrifying and tormenting the helpless. At night, they formed themselves into patrol bands, and went wherever they chose among the colored people, acting out their brutal will. Many women hid themselves in woods and swamps, to keep out of their way. If any of the husbands or fathers told of these outrages, they were tied up to the public whipping post, and cruelly scourged for telling lies about white men. The consternation was universal. No two people that had the slightest tinge of color in their faces dared to be seen talking together. I entertained no positive fears about our household, because we were in the midst of white families who would protect us. We were ready to receive the soldiers whenever they came. It was not long before we heard the tramp of feet and the sound of voices. The door was rudely pushed open; and in they tumbled, like a pack of hungry wolves. They snatched at every thing within their reach. Every box, trunk, closet, and corner underwent a thorough examination. A box in one of the drawers containing some silver change was eagerly pounced upon. When I stepped forward to take it from them, one of the soldiers turned and said angrily, “What d’ye foller us fur? D’ye s’pose white folks is come to steal?” I replied, “You have come to search; but you have searched that box, and I will take it, if you please.” At that moment I saw a white gentleman who was friendly to us; and I called to him, and asked him to have the goodness to come in and stay till the search was over. He readily complied. His entrance into the house brought in the captain of the company, whose business it was to guard the outside of the house, and see that none of the inmates left it. This officer was Mr. Litch, the wealthy slaveholder whom I mentioned, in the account of neighboring planters, as being notorious for his cruelty. He felt above soiling his hands with the search. He merely gave orders; and, if a bit of writing was discovered, it was carried to him by his ignorant followers, who were unable to read. My grandmother had a large trunk of bedding and table cloths. When that was opened, there was a great shout of surprise; and one exclaimed, “Where’d the damned niggers git all dis sheet an’ table clarf?” My grandmother, emboldened by the presence of our white protector, said, “You may be sure we didn’t pilfer ’em from your houses.” “Look here, mammy,” said a grim-looking fellow without any coat, “you seem to feel mighty gran’ ’cause you got all them ’ere fixens. White folks oughter have ’em all.” His remarks were interrupted by a chorus of voices shouting, “We’s got ’em! We’s got ’em! Dis ’ere yaller gal’s got letters!” There was a general rush for the supposed letter, which, upon examination, proved to be some verses written to me by a friend. In packing away my things, I had overlooked them. When their captain informed them of their contents, they seemed much disappointed. He inquired of me who wrote them. I told him it was one of my friends. “Can you read them?” he asked. When I told him I could, he swore, and raved, and tore the paper into bits. “Bring me all your letters!” said he, in a commanding tone. I told him I had none. “Don’t be afraid,” he continued, in an insinuating way. “Bring them all to me. Nobody shall do you any harm.” Seeing I did not move to obey him, his pleasant tone changed to oaths and threats. “Who writes to you? half free niggers?” inquired he. I replied, “O, no; most of my letters are from white people. Some request me to burn them after they are read, and some I destroy without reading.” An exclamation of surprise from some of the company put a stop to our conversation. Some silver spoons which ornamented an old-fashioned buffet had just been discovered. My grandmother was in the habit of preserving fruit for many ladies in the town, and of preparing suppers for parties; consequently she had many jars of preserves. The closet that contained these was next invaded, and the contents tasted. One of them, who was helping himself freely, tapped his neighbor on the shoulder, and said, “Wal done! Don’t wonder de niggers want to kill all de white folks, when dey live on ’sarves” [meaning preserves]. I stretched out my hand to take the jar, saying, “You were not sent here to search for sweetmeats.” “And what were we sent for?” said the captain, bristling up to me. I evaded the question. The search of the house was completed, and nothing found to condemn us. They next proceeded to the garden, and knocked about every bush and vine, with no better success. The captain called his men together, and, after a short consultation, the order to march was given. As they passed out of the gate, the captain turned back, and pronounced a malediction on the house. He said it ought to be burned to the ground, and each of its inmates receive thirty-nine lashes. We came out of this affair very fortunately; not losing any thing except some wearing apparel. Towards evening the turbulence increased. The soldiers, stimulated by drink, committed still greater cruelties. Shrieks and shouts continually rent the air. Not daring to go to the door, I peeped under the window curtain. I saw a mob dragging along a number of colored people, each white man, with his musket upraised, threatening instant death if they did not stop their shrieks. Among the prisoners was a respectable old colored minister. They had found a few parcels of shot in his house, which his wife had for years used to balance her scales. For this they were going to shoot him on Court House Green. What a spectacle was that for a civilized country! A rabble, staggering under intoxication, assuming to be the administrators of justice! The better class of the community exerted their influence to save the innocent, persecuted people; and in several instances they succeeded, by keeping them shut up in jail till the excitement abated. At last the white citizens found that their own property was not safe from the lawless rabble they had summoned to protect them. They rallied the drunken swarm, drove them back into the country, and set a guard over the town. The next day, the town patrols were commissioned to search colored people that lived out of the city; and the most shocking outrages were committed with perfect impunity. Every day for a fortnight, if I looked out, I saw horsemen with some poor panting negro tied to their saddles, and compelled by the lash to keep up with their speed, till they arrived at the jail yard. Those who had been whipped too unmercifully to walk were washed with brine, tossed into a cart, and carried to jail. One black man, who had not fortitude to endure scourging, promised to give information about the conspiracy. But it turned out that he knew nothing at all. He had not even heard the name of Nat Turner. The poor fellow had, however, made up a story, which augmented his own sufferings and those of the colored people. The day patrol continued for some weeks, and at sundown a night guard was substituted. Nothing at all was proved against the colored people, bond or free. The wrath of the slaveholders was somewhat appeased by the capture of Nat Turner. The imprisoned were released. The slaves were sent to their masters, and the free were permitted to return to their ravaged homes. Visiting was strictly forbidden on the plantations. The slaves begged the privilege of again meeting at their little church in the woods, with their burying ground around it. It was built by the colored people, and they had no higher happiness than to meet there and sing hymns together, and pour out their hearts in spontaneous prayer. Their request was denied, and the church was demolished. They were permitted to attend the white churches, a certain portion of the galleries being appropriated to their use. There, when every body else had partaken of the communion, and the benediction had been pronounced, the minister said, “Come down, now, my colored friends.” They obeyed the summons, and partook of the bread and wine, in commemoration of the meek and lowly Jesus, who said, “God is your Father, and all ye are brethren.”


Type:Social
👁 :
The Church And Slavery. Author: Harriet A. Jacobs Editor: Lydia Maria Child
Catagory: History
Author:
Posted Date:11/04/2024
Posted By:utopia online

After the alarm caused by Nat Turner’s insurrection had subsided, the slaveholders came to the conclusion that it would be well to give the slaves enough of religious instruction to keep them from murdering their masters. The Episcopal clergyman offered to hold a separate service on Sundays for their benefit. His colored members were very few, and also very respectable—a fact which I presume had some weight with him. The difficulty was to decide on a suitable place for them to worship. The Methodist and Baptist churches admitted them in the afternoon; but their carpets and cushions were not so costly as those at the Episcopal church. It was at last decided that they should meet at the house of a free colored man, who was a member. I was invited to attend, because I could read. Sunday evening came, and, trusting to the cover of night, I ventured out. I rarely ventured out by daylight, for I always went with fear, expecting at every turn to encounter Dr. Flint, who was sure to turn me back, or order me to his office to inquire where I got my bonnet, or some other article of dress. When the Rev. Mr. Pike came, there were some twenty persons present. The reverend gentleman knelt in prayer, then seated himself, and requested all present, who could read, to open their books, while he gave out the portions he wished them to repeat or respond to. His text was, “Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters according to the flesh, with fear and trembling, in singleness of your heart, as unto Christ.” Pious Mr. Pike brushed up his hair till it stood upright, and, in deep, solemn tones, began: “Hearken, ye servants! Give strict heed unto my words. You are rebellious sinners. Your hearts are filled with all manner of evil. ’Tis the devil who tempts you. God is angry with you, and will surely punish you, if you don’t forsake your wicked ways. You that live in town are eye-servants behind your master’s back. Instead of serving your masters faithfully, which is pleasing in the sight of your heavenly Master, you are idle, and shirk your work. God sees you. You tell lies. God hears you. Instead of being engaged in worshipping him, you are hidden away somewhere, feasting on your master’s substance; tossing coffee-grounds with some wicked fortuneteller, or cutting cards with another old hag. Your masters may not find you out, but God sees you, and will punish you. O, the depravity of your hearts! When your master’s work is done, are you quietly together, thinking of the goodness of God to such sinful creatures? No; you are quarrelling, and tying up little bags of roots to bury under the door-steps to poison each other with. God sees you. You men steal away to every grog shop to sell your master’s corn, that you may buy rum to drink. God sees you. You sneak into the back streets, or among the bushes, to pitch coppers. Although your masters may not find you out, God sees you; and he will punish you. You must forsake your sinful ways, and be faithful servants. Obey your old master and your young master—your old mistress and your young mistress. If you disobey your earthly master, you offend your heavenly Master. You must obey God’s commandments. When you go from here, don’t stop at the corners of the streets to talk, but go directly home, and let your master and mistress see that you have come.” The benediction was pronounced. We went home, highly amused at brother Pike’s gospel teaching, and we determined to hear him again. I went the next Sabbath evening, and heard pretty much a repetition of the last discourse. At the close of the meeting, Mr. Pike informed us that he found it very inconvenient to meet at the friend’s house, and he should be glad to see us, every Sunday evening, at his own kitchen. I went home with the feeling that I had heard the Reverend Mr. Pike for the last time. Some of his members repaired to his house, and found that the kitchen sported two tallow candles; the first time, I am sure, since its present occupant owned it, for the servants never had any thing but pine knots. It was so long before the reverend gentleman descended from his comfortable parlor that the slaves left, and went to enjoy a Methodist shout. They never seem so happy as when shouting and singing at religious meetings. Many of them are sincere, and nearer to the gate of heaven than sanctimonious Mr. Pike, and other long-faced Christians, who see wounded Samaritans, and pass by on the other side. The slaves generally compose their own songs and hymns; and they do not trouble their heads much about the measure. They often sing the following verses: “Old Satan is one busy ole man; He rolls dem blocks all in my way; But Jesus is my bosom friend; He rolls dem blocks away. “If I had died when I was young, Den how my stam’ring tongue would have sung; But I am ole, and now I stand A narrow chance for to tread dat heavenly land.” I well remember one occasion when I attended a Methodist class meeting. I went with a burdened spirit, and happened to sit next a poor, bereaved mother, whose heart was still heavier than mine. The class leader was the town constable—a man who bought and sold slaves, who whipped his brethren and sisters of the church at the public whipping post, in jail or out of jail. He was ready to perform that Christian office any where for fifty cents. This white-faced, black-hearted brother came near us, and said to the stricken woman, “Sister, can’t you tell us how the Lord deals with your soul? Do you love him as you did formerly?” She rose to her feet, and said, in piteous tones, “My Lord and Master, help me! My load is more than I can bear. God has hid himself from me, and I am left in darkness and misery.” Then, striking her breast, she continued, “I can’t tell you what is in here! They’ve got all my children. Last week they took the last one. God only knows where they’ve sold her. They let me have her sixteen years, and then— O! O! Pray for her brothers and sisters! I’ve got nothing to live for now. God make my time short!” She sat down, quivering in every limb. I saw that constable class leader become crimson in the face with suppressed laughter, while he held up his handkerchief, that those who were weeping for the poor woman’s calamity might not see his merriment. Then, with assumed gravity, he said to the bereaved mother, “Sister, pray to the Lord that every dispensation of his divine will may be sanctified to the good of your poor needy soul!” The congregation struck up a hymn, and sung as though they were as free as the birds that warbled round us,— “Ole Satan thought he had a mighty aim; He missed my soul, and caught my sins. Cry Amen, cry Amen, cry Amen to God! “He took my sins upon his back; Went muttering and grumbling down to hell. Cry Amen, cry Amen, cry Amen to God! “Ole Satan’s church is here below. Up to God’s free church I hope to go. Cry Amen, cry Amen, cry Amen to God!” Precious are such moments to the poor slaves. If you were to hear them at such times, you might think they were happy. But can that hour of singing and shouting sustain them through the dreary week, toiling without wages, under constant dread of the lash? The Episcopal clergyman, who, ever since my earliest recollection, had been a sort of god among the slaveholders, concluded, as his family was large, that he must go where money was more abundant. A very different clergyman took his place. The change was very agreeable to the colored people, who said, “God has sent us a good man this time.” They loved him, and their children followed him for a smile or a kind word. Even the slaveholders felt his influence. He brought to the rectory five slaves. His wife taught them to read and write, and to be useful to her and themselves. As soon as he was settled, he turned his attention to the needy slaves around him. He urged upon his parishioners the duty of having a meeting expressly for them every Sunday, with a sermon adapted to their comprehension. After much argument and importunity, it was finally agreed that they might occupy the gallery of the church on Sunday evenings. Many colored people, hitherto unaccustomed to attend church, now gladly went to hear the gospel preached. The sermons were simple, and they understood them. Moreover, it was the first time they had ever been addressed as human beings. It was not long before his white parishioners began to be dissatisfied. He was accused of preaching better sermons to the negroes than he did to them. He honestly confessed that he bestowed more pains upon those sermons than upon any others; for the slaves were reared in such ignorance that it was a difficult task to adapt himself to their comprehension. Dissensions arose in the parish. Some wanted he should preach to them in the evening, and to the slaves in the afternoon. In the midst of these disputings his wife died, after a very short illness. Her slaves gathered round her dying bed in great sorrow. She said, “I have tried to do you good and promote your happiness; and if I have failed, it has not been for want of interest in your welfare. Do not weep for me; but prepare for the new duties that lie before you. I leave you all free. May we meet in a better world.” Her liberated slaves were sent away, with funds to establish them comfortably. The colored people will long bless the memory of that truly Christian woman. Soon after her death her husband preached his farewell sermon, and many tears were shed at his departure. Several years after, he passed through our town and preached to his former congregation. In his afternoon sermon he addressed the colored people. “My friends,” said he, “it affords me great happiness to have an opportunity of speaking to you again. For two years I have been striving to do something for the colored people of my own parish; but nothing is yet accomplished. I have not even preached a sermon to them. Try to live according to the word of God, my friends. Your skin is darker than mine; but God judges men by their hearts, not by the color of their skins.” This was strange doctrine from a southern pulpit. It was very offensive to slaveholders. They said he and his wife had made fools of their slaves, and that he preached like a fool to the negroes. I knew an old black man, whose piety and childlike trust in God were beautiful to witness. At fifty-three years old he joined the Baptist church. He had a most earnest desire to learn to read. He thought he should know how to serve God better if he could only read the Bible. He came to me, and begged me to teach him. He said he could not pay me, for he had no money; but he would bring me nice fruit when the season for it came. I asked him if he didn’t know it was contrary to law; and that slaves were whipped and imprisoned for teaching each other to read. This brought the tears into his eyes. “Don’t be troubled, uncle Fred,” said I. “I have no thoughts of refusing to teach you. I only told you of the law, that you might know the danger, and be on your guard.” He thought he could plan to come three times a week without its being suspected. I selected a quiet nook, where no intruder was likely to penetrate, and there I taught him his A, B, C. Considering his age, his progress was astonishing. As soon as he could spell in two syllables he wanted to spell out words in the Bible. The happy smile that illuminated his face put joy into my heart. After spelling out a few words, he paused, and said, “Honey, it ’pears when I can read dis good book I shall be nearer to God. White man is got all de sense. He can larn easy. It ain’t easy for ole black man like me. I only wants to read dis book, dat I may know how to live; den I hab no fear ’bout dying.” I tried to encourage him by speaking of the rapid progress he had made. “Hab patience, child,” he replied. “I larns slow.” I had no need of patience. His gratitude, and the happiness I imparted, were more than a recompense for all my trouble. At the end of six months he had read through the New Testament, and could find any text in it. One day, when he had recited unusually well, I said, “Uncle Fred, how do you manage to get your lessons so well?” “Lord bress you, chile,” he replied. “You nebber gibs me a lesson dat I don’t pray to God to help me to understan’ what I spells and what I reads. And he does help me, chile. Bress his holy name!” There are thousands, who, like good uncle Fred, are thirsting for the water of life; but the law forbids it, and the churches withhold it. They send the Bible to heathen abroad, and neglect the heathen at home. I am glad that missionaries go out to the dark corners of the earth; but I ask them not to overlook the dark corners at home. Talk to American slaveholders as you talk to savages in Africa. Tell them it is wrong to traffic in men. Tell them it is sinful to sell their own children, and atrocious to violate their own daughters. Tell them that all men are brethren, and that man has no right to shut out the light of knowledge from his brother. Tell them they are answerable to God for sealing up the Fountain of Life from souls that are thirsting for it. There are men who would gladly undertake such missionary work as this; but, alas! their number is small. They are hated by the south, and would be driven from its soil, or dragged to prison to die, as others have been before them. The field is ripe for the harvest, and awaits the reapers. Perhaps the great grandchildren of uncle Fred may have freely imparted to them the divine treasures, which he sought by stealth, at the risk of the prison and the scourge. Are doctors of divinity blind, or are they hypocrites? I suppose some are the one, and some the other; but I think if they felt the interest in the poor and the lowly, that they ought to feel, they would not be so easily blinded. A clergyman who goes to the south, for the first time, has usually some feeling, however vague, that slavery is wrong. The slaveholder suspects this, and plays his game accordingly. He makes himself as agreeable as possible; talks on theology, and other kindred topics. The reverend gentleman is asked to invoke a blessing on a table loaded with luxuries. After dinner he walks round the premises, and sees the beautiful groves and flowering vines, and the comfortable huts of favored household slaves. The southerner invites him to talk with these slaves. He asks them if they want to be free, and they say, “O, no, massa.” This is sufficient to satisfy him. He comes home to publish a “South-Side View of Slavery,” and to complain of the exaggerations of abolitionists. He assures people that he has been to the south, and seen slavery for himself; that it is a beautiful “patriarchal institution;” that the slaves don’t want their freedom; that they have hallelujah meetings, and other religious privileges. What does he know of the half-starved wretches toiling from dawn till dark on the plantations? of mothers shrieking for their children, torn from their arms by slave traders? of young girls dragged down into moral filth? of pools of blood around the whipping post? of hounds trained to tear human flesh? of men screwed into cotton gins to die? The slaveholder showed him none of these things, and the slaves dared not tell of them if he had asked them. There is a great difference between Christianity and religion at the south. If a man goes to the communion table, and pays money into the treasury of the church, no matter if it be the price of blood, he is called religious. If a pastor has offspring by a woman not his wife, the church dismiss him, if she is a white woman; but if she is colored, it does not hinder his continuing to be their good shepherd. When I was told that Dr. Flint had joined the Episcopal church, I was much surprised. I supposed that religion had a purifying effect on the character of men; but the worst persecutions I endured from him were after he was a communicant. The conversation of the doctor, the day after he had been confirmed, certainly gave me no indication that he had “renounced the devil and all his works.” In answer to some of his usual talk, I reminded him that he had just joined the church. “Yes, Linda,” said he. “It was proper for me to do so. I am getting in years, and my position in society requires it, and it puts an end to all the damned slang. You would do well to join the church, too, Linda.” “There are sinners enough in it already,” rejoined I. “If I could be allowed to live like a Christian, I should be glad.” “You can do what I require; and if you are faithful to me, you will be as virtuous as my wife,” he replied. I answered that the Bible didn’t say so. His voice became hoarse with rage. “How dare you preach to me about your infernal Bible!” he exclaimed. “What right have you, who are my negro, to talk to me about what you would like, and what you wouldn’t like? I am your master, and you shall obey me.” No wonder the slaves sing,— “Ole Satan’s church is here below; Up to God’s free church I hope to go.”


Type:Social
👁 :
ARTICLES OF CLAY. Author: James Stevenson
Catagory:Reading
Author:
Posted Date:11/04/2024
Posted By:utopia online

ARTICLES OF CLAY. WATER JARS. 67548. Ancient water-jar, with the road of the clouds represented on the front. I-no-to-na té-mui-a mé-he-ton-ne. 67745. Very old water-jar in representation of an owl. Mu-hu-kwi mé-he-tâ´ thlä-shi. 67757, 67752. Water-jars representing owls, small, new. 67758. Ditto, representing a duck. É-a mé-he-tâ. 67760. Ditto, smaller, having representation of butterfly. 67534. Small toy water-jar. I-k‘osh-na-k’ia k‘ia-wih-nï-k’ia té-tsa-na. 67313. Small girl’s water-jar, or olla. É-tsa-na a k‘iá-wih-nï-k’ia té-tsa-na. 66496. Small toy water-jar of red ware. I-k‘osh-na-k’ia k‘ia-wih-nï-k’ia té-shi-loa t‘sa-na. 66451. Large olla, or water-jar, decorated with floral patterns. K‘ia-wih na-k’ia té-le. 66401, 66349, 66366, 66442. Ditto, ancient terrace and rattlesnake decoration. 66432. Ditto, curve and bird pattern. 66549, 66369, 66460, 66374. Ditto, curve pattern. 66391, 66352. Ditto, with floral and bird pattern. 66422. Ditto, primitive sacred terrace and rattlesnake pattern. 66333. Ditto, with decoration representative of lightning and milkyway. 66468. Ditto, with rainbow and lightning pattern. 66472. Ditto, with rosette, curve and deer patterns, and sacred birds reversed. 532 66364. Ditto, floral rosette, and deer patterns, with central band containing the conventional bird. 66417. Ditto, deer and floral patterns. 66539. Ditto, rosette, plant, bird, and deer patterns. 66545, 66331. Ditto, rosette, deer (po-ye) patterns. 66343. Ditto, rosette, bird, and curve pattern. 66385. Ditto, curve, star rosette, and bird pattern. 66346, 66454. Ditto, small, deer and bird decoration. 66537. Ditto, with star flower rosette, deer, and terrace conception of the sky. 66341. Ditto, with deer (Na´-tsi-na) and Quail (or Pó-yi) decoration. 66439. Ditto, with deer and floral decoration. 66388. Ditto, with deer, rabbit, and star-flower rosette. 66420. Ditto, with deer and star-flower rosette decoration. 66353. Ditto, small, with young deer. 66526. Ditto, with arabesque terrace and rattlesnake pattern. 66548. Ditto, with curve and po-ye pattern. 66418. Ditto, with primitive terrace pattern. 66351. Ditto, with curve and star rosette decoration. 66336. Ditto, with curve and Pó-yi decoration. 66469. Ditto, with curve decoration. 66462. Ditto, with zigzag and floral patterns. 66477. Ditto, very small sky pattern. 66521. Small toy water jar (modern). I-k‘osh-na-k’ia té-tsa-na. 66443. Elegantly ornamented toy water jar, in primitive style of decoration. Í-k‘osh-na-k’ia té-tsa-na, í-no-to-na ik-na tsí-na-pa. 66482. Ancient water jar of red ware. I-no-to-na k‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-thla-na. 66440. Small girl’s water jar, decorated with floral designs in red and black. É-tsa-na an k‘iá-wih-na-kia té-tsa-na. 66543. Ditto, of red ware in imitation of ancient. 66491. Ditto, ancient, with bird decoration. 66480. Ditto, ancient, with conventional design. 66342. Ancient water jar from the ruins of K‘iä-k’i-me (Home of the eagles), an ancient Zuñi pueblo near the base of the mesa of Tâ-ai-yäl-lon-ne. 66486. Ancient small water jar, beautifully decorated with red and black designs on a cream body, from the ruins of Wí-mai-a, one of the ancient Zuñi pueblos on the north side of the valley of Zuñi, the birth-place of the grandparents of a living aged Zuñi named “Ú-pe-kwi-na.” 67310. Small water jar of red ware. É-tsa-na an té-shi lo a. 66444. Water jar, or olla, with star and flower decoration. Kia-wih-na-k’ia té-le. 66394. Ditto, with ancient terrace and arrow decoration. 66547. Ditto, with deer and quail decoration. 533 66361. Ditto, with curve decoration. 66416. Large jar decorated with ancient figures, and used as receptacle for sacred plumes. Lá-po-kia té-le. 66357. Very ancient rattlesnake and sacred terrace water-jar. I-no-to-na k‘ia-wih-na-kia té-li, a-wi-thluia-po-na, tchi-to-la, ta yä´-to kia pä´-tchi-pa. 66379. Ditto, modified. 67482. Small toy water jar, paint pot. 66533. Ditto, bird and deer decoration. 66338. Ditto, bird and rosette decoration. 66445. Ditto, rosette and small red wing decoration. 66467. Ditto, with chevron of lightning and milkyway. 66431. Ditto, small rosette and star decoration. 66479. Very large, small-mouthed plume jar. La-po-k’ia té-thlana. 66483. Ditto, very large and very ancient. 66485. Ditto, for water used by inhabitants of large mesas. 66449. Ditto, ancient terrace and rattlesnake decoration. 66475. Ditto, primitive terrace and arrow decoration. 67550. Large, bird-shaped ancient jar with handle. E-a té-mu-to-pa (í-no-to-na). See fig. 2, pl. xli. 66424. Jar made in imitation of treasure jar, found in ruins of Wí-mai a. Thlá-wo-pu-k‘ia té-tsa-na í-no-to-na án-te-li-ah-na yó-k‘oa. 66350. Small broken jar with representation of Maximillian’s jay. K’ia wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na mai-a wó-pa-no-pa. 66356, 66344, 66406. Ditto, with antelope design. 66484. Ditto, ground-sparrow decoration. see caption Plate XLI.2. (67550) ZUÑI JAR. WATER BOTTLES. 67342. Small, double-lobed water bottle. Mé wi-k‘i-lík-ton í-yäthl täsh-sha-na. 66376. Very large water bottle with elaborate ancient fret design, for purposes described under 66485, with holes to facilitate handling and pegs for suspension. This remarkable specimen has been handed down from generation to generation since the time of the habitation of Tâ ai yäl lon ne. 68546. Ornamented water bottle of basket work. Hâ-i-tóm tsi-na-pa. 67316. Small red water jar for child. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na thlúp-tsi-na. (66506.) Water jar for making yeast, of yellow ware. Mo-tse ópi-k‘iana-k’ia té-thlup-tsi-na. 66507. Yeast-water-making jar of yellow ware. Mo-tse k‘ia-nan o-na-kia té-thlup-tsi-na. 66474. Small water jar for children. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na. 66461. Kia-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na. 534 67536. Yeast-water-making jar of yellow ware. Mo-tse k‘ia-nan o-na-kia té-thlup-tsi-na. 67558. Large vase in representation of knit moccasin, used as a toy. We-po-tcha té-tsa-na í-k‘osh-na-kia. 66392. Large water jar or olla. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-thla-na. 66541. Large water jar or olla. Kiá-wih-na-kia té-le. 66371. Small water jar for children. K‘ia-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na. ——. Yeast-water jar of red ware. Mo-tse k‘ia-nan o-na-k’ia té-shi-lo-a. 67330. Water jar with representations of deer, etc. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-na-pa-na-pa. 66436. Water jar. K‘ia-wih-na-k’ia té-le. 66404. Large water jar, with ancient zigzag decoration, referring to the four wombs of earth and the darts with which they were broken open for the liberation and birth of mankind. K‘iá-wih na-k’ia té-le, a-wi-ten té-huthl-na, a-wi-thlui-a-po-na tsí-na-pa. 66398. Small water jar. K‘ia-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na. 66518. Small toy water jar or olla of red ware. K‘ia-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na shi-lo-a, á-tsa-na a-wa. 66368. Small child’s water jar or olla. Tsan-’an kiá-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na. 66389. Large water jar or olla. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-thla-na. 66359. Small water jar or olla. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na. 66465. Small toy water jar or olla. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na í-k‘osh-na-k’ia. 66473. Large white olla or water jar. K‘ia-wih-na-k’ia té-k‘o-ha-na. ——. Small sacred water jar with terraced rim. K‘iá-pu-kia a-wi-thlui-a-po-na té-tsa-na. 66476. Small olla or decorated water jar, ancient. I-no-te k‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na. ——. Jar or olla decorated in ancient emblematic style, and used as a receptacle for sacred plumes. Lá-po-k’ia té-le. 66446. Small decorated water jar or olla for children. K‘ia-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na. 66420. Small decorated water jar or olla for children. Á-tsa-na a-wa k‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na. 67347. Large double salt-jar. Ma-po-k’ia té-thla-na. 66377. Small water jar or decorated olla. K‘ia-wih-ni-k’ia té-tsa-na. 66544. Water jar or decorated olla. K‘ia-wih-na-k’ia té-le. ——. Small red jar for mixture of hé k‘i or batter. Hé-k‘i wó-li-kiá sá-tsa-na. 67517-67516. Small jars for black plume-stick paint. Ha-k‘win hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na. 67532. Small toy olla or water jar of red ware. Í-k‘osh-na-kia k’iá-wih-na-k’ia-té-tsa-na. ——. Water jar or old olla, decorated with figures of antelope and sacred birds. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-thlä-shi-na, ná-pa-no-pa, wó-tsa-na wó-pa-no-pa. 535 67321. Small yellow water jar or olla. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na thlúp-tsi-na. 66373. Decorated water jar or olla. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-le, hé-pa-k’i wó-pa-na-pa. 66453. Small decorated water jar or olla. K‘ia-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na. 66351-66410. Large decorated ollas or water jars. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-we, á-thla-na. 66423. Small decorated water jar or olla. K‘ia-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na. 66450. Small toy olla or decorated water jar. Í-k‘osh-na-kia té-tsa-na. 66520. Red ware salt jar with castellated and corrugated edges and rim. Má-po-k’ia te-shi-lo-a mú-to-pa. ——. Small decorated olla or water jar. K‘ia-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na. 66399. Child’s small water jar or decorated olla. K‘ia-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na a-tsa-na áwa. ——. Small decorated water-jar or child’s olla. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na a-tsa-na áwa. 66413. Water jar or olla on which the emblematic terraces of the four wombs of earth and the magic knife with which they were opened are conspicuous decorations. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-le, á-wi-ten té-huthl-na, á-wi-thlui-a pa push-kwai-na pä´-tchi-pa. 66387. Small decorated water jar or olla, with figures of deer. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na, shó-ho-i-ta pá-tchi-pa. 66428. Small decorated water jar or olla. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia tá-tsa-na ná-pa-na-pa. ——. Large double salt and pepper jar. Má-po-kia té-wi-pa-tchi-na. 66354. Water jar, large, decorated. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-le. 66466. Water jar or olla decorated with ancient design of the rattlesnake gens. K‘ia-wih-na-k’ia te-le, í-no-to-na Tchí-to-la-kwe a-wa tsí-nan tsí-na-pa. 66334. Water jar or decorated olla. K‘ia-wih-na-k’ia te-le. 66463. Olla or decorated water jar with figures of sacred birds and rosette. K‘ia-wih-na-k’ia te-le, wó-tsa-na ta hé-pa-k‘i wó-pa-no-pa. 66337. Olla or water jar decorated with figures of sacred blue birds. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-le, k‘iä´-she-ma-mai-a wó-pa-no-pa. 66457. Olla or decorated water jar. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-le. ——. Olla or water jar decorated with figures of deer, growing plants, and the gentile quail of chaparral cock. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-le, ná-pa-no-pa, pó-yi ta kwan-hai-apä´-tchi-pa. 66405. Olla or decorated water jar. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-le. 66345. Small water jar or decorated olla, ancient design. K‘iá-wih-na-kia té-tsa-na, i-no-to-na tsí-na-pa. 66492. Small, line decorated red earthen water jar. K‘ia-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na, shi-lo-a tsí-na-pa. ——. Small sacred water jar in form of mud hen. Hí-lu-k’ia mé-he-tâ tsa-na. 536 66414. Olla or water jar decorated with emblems of the gentile rattlesnake. K‘iá-wih-na-kia te-le, Tchí-to-la-kwe a-wen tsí-nan pä´-tchi-pa. 66407. Olla or decorated water jar figured with deer and antelope. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-le ná-pa-o-pa. 66427. Small olla or water jar decorated with figures of antelope. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na, ná-pa-no-pa. 66497. Small red ware water jar. K‘ia-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na, shí-lo-ā. 76437. Small olla or water jar decorated with figures of antelope. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia te-le, ná-pa-no-pa. 66470. Large olla or decorated water jar, with figures of sacred birds. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-thla-na wó-tsa-na wó-pa-no-pa. 66472. Large olla or water jar decorated with the designs of the rattlesnakes. K‘ia-wih-na-k’ia té-thla-na, Tchi-to-la-kwe a-wa tsi-na tsí-na-pa. 66403. Small water jar or olla decorated with figures of antelope and black birds. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na, na-pa-no-pa, k‘é-tchu wó-pa-no-pa. 66384. Small decorated water jar or olla. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na. 66546. Small decorated water jar or olla. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na. ——. Child’s water jar or olla decorated with figures of antelope and a kind of sparrow. A-tsa-na a-wa k‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na ná-pa-no-pa, ta k‘iäp-tchu-pa wó-pa-no-pa. 67318. Small, yellow ware water jar for children. Í-k’osh-na-k‘ia k’ia-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na thlúp-tsi-ni. ——. Small, decorated water jar or olla. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na. 66520. Small toy olla or water jar with representation of sacred tail plumes. Í-k‘osh-na-k’ia k‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na, k‘iä-ti té-hi-a wó-pa-no-pa. 66381. Small olla or water jar, decorated. K‘iá-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na. 66471. Small olla or decorated water jar, white ground, with representation of sacred terraces and road. K‘ia-wih-na-k’ia té-k‘o-ha na, a-wi-thlui-a tsa-na tsin´-u-lap-nai-e. 66386. Ditto, large, with curve decoration and representation of Clark’s jay. K‘ia-wih-na-k’ia té-thla-na, ní-tsi-k‘ia ta maí-a-wo-pa-na-pa. 66464. Ditto, small, with representations of deer running. Na-pa-no-pa-yä´thl-yel-ai-e. ——. Ditto, with deer represented on body, and rosette on opposite side. Na-pa-na-pa, hé-pa-k‘i wó-pa-no-pa. 66340. Ditto, decorated with quail and deer. Ná-pa-na-pa, ta po-yi wó-pa-na-pa. 66365. Olla, very large, decorated with rosettes and cloud scrolls. Hïsh thla-na, he-pa-k‘i ta ló-te-po-a tsí-na-pa. 66372. Ditto, white. K‘ó-ha na. 537 66535. Ditto, with rosette and quail decorations. He-pa-k‘i ta po-yi-wó-tsa-na wó-pa-na-pa. 56340. Ditto, smaller, decorated with flowered star. Mo-ya-tchun-ú-te-a-pa pä´-tchi-e. 66433. Ditto, with representation of deer and growing plants. Sho-ho-i-ta ta hai-a wó-pa-na-pa. 66408. Ditto, with ancient representation of the sky, terrace, falling clouds, and the great rattlesnake. A-wih-thlui-a, lo-pa-ni-le ta tchí-to-la, wo-pa-na-pa. 66397. Ditto, with scroll and quail decoration. Wo-tsa-na wó-pa-no-pa, ta ni-tsi-k’ia tsi-na-pa. 66527. Ditto, with representation of antelope. Ná-pa-no-pa. 66528. Ditto, with addition of rude bird decorations. Ná-pa-no-pa ta-wó-tsa-na wó-pa-no-pa. 66380. Ditto, small antelopes. Ná-tsa-na-ná-pa-no-pa. 66459. Ditto, with terrace or sacred zigzag, flowers and birds represented. A-wi-thlui-a, u-te-a-pa ta wo-tsa-na-wó-pa-no-pa á-tsi-nai-e. 66412. Ditto, same as small. 66390 } Ditto, small antelope. Ná-tsa-na wó-pa-no-pa. 66456 66395. Large water jar or olla, decorated with sacred rosette and birds (sparrows). K‘ia-wih-na-k’ia té-thla-na he-pa-k‘i ta wó-tsa-na-wó-pa-no-pa. 66339, 66533, 66534. Ditto, with figures of deer. Ná-pa-no-pa. 66445. Ditto, with ancient terrace and rattlesnake decorations. 66447. Ditto, with ancient design. K‘ú-sho-kwïn tsí-nai-e. 66543. Ditto, with scroll decoration. Ní-tsi-k’ia wo-pa-no-pa. 66402. Ditto, smaller. Tsá-na. 66382. Ditto, with young deer decoration. Na-tsi-k‘o wó-pa-no-pa. ——. Ditto, bird decoration (gentile quail, pó-yi). 66419. Ditto, ornate design. Á-sho-na-k’ia tsí-na-pa. 66355. Ditto, with rosette and bird decoration. 66367. Ditto, with star and plant decoration. Mo-yä-tchun ta kwan-hai-a wó-pa-no-pa. 66512. Small red treasure jar for suspension, ancient. I-no-to-na thlâ´-wo-pu-k’ia té-tsa-na. 66425. Small toy water-jar decorated with figures of antelope. K‘ia-wih-na-kia té-tsa-na, a-tsan áwa. 66393. Small water jar for young children. K’iá-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na a-tsan, á-wa. 66370, 66410. Small decorated water jars or ollas. Kia-wih-na-kia té-we á-tsa-na. 66426, 66429. Ollas, large. 66438. Olla or water jar decorated with ancient terrace and rattlesnake’s form. K‘ia-wih-na-k’ia té-thla-na. 66435. Ditto, with same decoration. 538 66538. Ditto, with curve decoration. 66332. Ditto, with animal decoration. 66532. Ditto, with primitive “ä-wi-thlui-ă po-na” and cloud decoration. 66536. Ditto, animal decoration. 66550, 66501, 66502, 66503, 66504. Jars of red ware used for souring yeast. Mo-tse ó-pi-k’ia-na-k’ia té-pi-tsu-li-a. 66505. Ditto, white. 66508. Ditto, white with red band about neck. Shi-lo-a äthl-yet-âi-é. 67311. Ditto, curved decoration. 66529. Ditto, decorated with ancient terrace and rattlesnake. 66363, 66448, 66430. Ditto, curved decoration. 67531. Ditto, deer and bird decoration. ——. Ditto, curved and animal decoration. ——. Ditto, primitive terrace decoration with deer. 66360. Ditto, curved and scroll decoration. 66383, 66441. Ditto, animal and curve decoration. 66434. Ditto, small animal decoration. 66399, 66475, 66409. Small child’s water jar or olla. Í-k‘osh-na-k’ia k‘ià-wih-na-k’ia té-tsa-na. ——. Small, very old water jar with primitive decorations. K‘iá-wih-na-kia té-tsa-na tsí-thlä-shi-nï-shi. see caption Plate XLI.3. (68201) ZUÑI CANTEEN. CANTEENS AND WATER JUGS. 67777. Canteen, large figure of spotted pig. Pí-tsi-wi-tsi-sú-pa-no-pa mé-he-tâ. 67542. Small cylindrical canteen with representation of mammæ. Mé-wi-k‘i-lik-ton tsa-na k‘wí-k‘ia-k’ia-pa. 67539, 67538. Ditto, small double ball shaped. 67784, 67815, 67800. Small decorated canteens. Me-he-tâ tsí-na-pa. 68201. Small canteen remarkable for its conception and decoration, representing in form the reproductiveness of water (the phallic frog), and in decoration, water its inhabitants, and a star reflection. Ta-k’ia í-sho-ha mé-wi-se-ton-ne, á-k‘iä-na ta k‘iä-shi-tâ pä-tchun mó-ya-tchun ú-le. See fig. 3, pl. xli. 68207. Red ware canteen. Mé-he-tâ shí-lo-a. 68209. Yellow ware bottle-shaped canteen. Té-me-he-tâ. 67798. Long-necked gourd-shaped canteen, of red ware. Té-me-he-tâ täsh-sha na, shí-lo-a. 67750. Canteen in representation of chaparral cock. Po-yi mé-he-tâ. 66767. Small canteen in form of hawk or falcon. Pi-pi mé-he-tâ. 67778. Broken canteen (toy) in form of hog. Í-k‘osh-na-kia pí-tsi-wi-ti mé-he-tâ. 68427. Small red ware canteen, with white decoration at back. Mé-he-tâ tsá na. 539 68184. Canteen, red ware. 67807, 68213. Ditto, yellow ware. 68208, 69864. Ditto, red ware, large. 68187. Ditto, white ware. 68218. Ditto, red ware, smaller. 68182. Ditto, large, yellow ware. 67815. Ditto, very small and crude. 68221. Ditto, large, white ware. 68216. Ditto, with white back and red belly. 68181. Ditto, red ware, repaired with pitch. 68183. Ditto, decorated ware with “Cachina” decoration. 68192. Ditto, decorated with carved leaf pattern. 68175. Ditto, small, decorated. 68170. Ditto, very large, white ware, ornamented with rosette decoration. 67876. Ditto, ditto, more elaborate. 68222. Ancient canteen, in form of young bird, found in a cutting of the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad on the eastern slope of Mt. San Francisco, Arizona, by W. R. Smith, and presented by him to F. H. Cushing for the U.S. National Museum. 67771. Small canteen representing an owl. Mu-hu-kwi mé-he-tâ-tsa-na. 67549. Double, long-necked canteen, connected by two tubes. Mé-wi-k‘i-lik-ton í-täsh-sha wó-po-no-pa. 67547. Ditto, smaller. 68151. Small canteen of red ware. Me-he-tâ tsa-na, shí-lo-a. 67812. Large yellow canteen. Me-he-tâ thlup-tsi-na. 68223. Ordinary yellow canteen; same Indian name as preceding. 67754. Small canteen in the form of an owl. Mu-hu-kwi mé-he-ton-ne. 68193. Child’s small canteen. Me-he-tâ, tsan án. 67791. Large, yellow ware canteen. Me-het-thla-na thlúp-tsi-na. 67787. Small canteen for children. Me-he-tâ-tsá-na. 67811. Yellow ware canteen decorated with the sun vine. Me-he-tâ thlup-tsi-na tsí-na-pa. 67785. Child’s small canteen of red ware. Me-he-tâ tsa-na shí-lo-a. 67790. Red ware canteen. This specimen is plain red; they are frequently decorated in bands and figures of white. ——. A small canteen for sacred water, representing an owl. Mú-hu-kwi k‘iá-pu-k’ia mé-he-tâ tsa-na. 67814. Large canteen representing the moon, of red ware. Me-he-tâ shi-lo-a. Yä-tchn, ánte-li-ah-nai-é. 67808. Small double canteen. Me-wi-se-tâ tsa-na. 67792. Small canteen with emblematic decorations of sacred hooks. Me-he-tâ, ne-tsi-ko-pa. 68194. Yellow ware canteen. Me-he-tâ thlup-tsi-na. 68204. Small yellow canteen. 540 68212. Large yellow canteen. Me-he-tâ thlup-tsi-na thlá-na. ——. Sacred, decorated canteen. 68206. Small decorated canteen. 67824. Large, yellow ware canteen. 67759. Small canteen for holding sacred water, in form of an owl. K‘iá-pu-kia mu-hu-kwi mé-he-tâ. 67796. Small red canteen with etchings of phallic significance. Mé-he-tâ shi-lo-a í-shoh-na tsí-no-na.(?) 68189. Small yellow ware canteen. 67789. Small decorated canteen. Me-he-tâ tsí-na-pa. 67813. Small yellow ware canteen. 68156. Large yellow ware canteen, with winding white band decoration. Me-he-tâ thlup-tsi-na, tsin´-u-lap-nai-é. 68205. Small yellow ware canteen, decorated with rosette. Me-he-tâ thlúp-tsi-na, hé-pa-kin pä-tchi-e. 68199. Small toy canteen. Í-k‘osh-na-k’ia mé-he-tâ tsa-na. 68157. Canteen of red ware. Me-he-tâ, shí-lo-a. 67795. Medium-sized canteen, decorated with figures of quail or road runner; the latter bird is quite abundant in Arizona, but not in the Zuñi country. This canteen is of a cream white color, the decorations being in black. Me-he-tâ, pó-yi wó-pa-no-pa. 67545. Barrel-shaped canteen with knob like ends, and representations of mammæ near the mouth, for milk or sweet drinks. Mé-wi-k‘i-lik-ton-ne, kwí-k‘ia-pa. 67816. Decorated canteen. Me-he-tâ thla-na-tsí-na-pa. 68168. Small red ware canteen. 67805. Small red earthenware canteen, with representation of a burning star at apex. Mé-he-tâ thlup-tsi-na tsa-na, mo-yä-tchu-thla-na pä-tchi tsí-nai e. 68163. Large red ware canteen with winding bands, in representation of serpent. Mé-he-tâ, tsín-u-lap-nai-é. 68162. Small red canteen. 69863. Red ware canteen. 69865. Large water bottle canteen. Mé-he-tâ, tóm täsh-sha-na. 68159. Small red ware canteen, without decoration. 67475. Small toy canteen of special significance, which can only be derived from a translation of the Indian name given it. Ku-ne-a í-k‘osh-na-kia mé-he-tâ-tsa-na, í-se-to-na. “Clay for playing with which, canteen little, carrying itself,” etc. 68220. Small canteen decorated with figure of lily. Me-he-tâ, u-te-a í-to-pa-na pä´-tchi-e. 68176. Large red ware canteen. 69861. Large yellow ware canteen, with figure of the morning star. Mé-he-tâ thla-na thlúp-tsi-na, mó-yä-tchun-thlá-no-na pä´-tchi-e. 68173. Small red ware canteen with cone like apex. 541 67810. Small decorated canteen. 68179. Medium sized canteen, decorated on upper part with star cross. Me-he-tâ mó-se-wek-sin tsí-nai-e. ——. Small canteen of red ware. 67797. Small canteen of red ware. 68169. Small decorated canteen, with rosette on the apex. Í-k‘osh-na kïa me-he-tâ tsa-na hé-pa-k‘i tsín-yäthl-tâi-é. 69875. Canteen, medium size, of red ware. 67801. Similar to the preceding, but of cream white ware. Me-he-tâ iú k‘o-ha-na. 68166. Same as preceding, of yellow ware, with representation, on cream-white ground, of sacred-feathered, cross-bows. Pí-thla-pä-tchi lá-kwai tsí-nai-e. 67806. Ditto, ditto, red shí-lo-a. 68217. Ditto, white, with representation of rattlesnake. K‘o-ha-na, tchí-to-la pä´-tchi-e. 69862. Ditto, red, with representation of cloud on apex. (Ló-te-po-ai-e.) 67540. Small toy canteen, with small neck. ——. Owl-shaped canteen. 67755. Same as preceding in form, but differing somewhat in the details of ornamentation. 68155. Small double canteen, or “child carrier,” with representation of wreath of flowers. Me-he-tâ tsa-nâ tcha-se-tâ, ú-te-a ú-lap-na-ai-e. 68214. Ditto, larger, with representation of sacred star rosette. Hé-pa-k‘i-wó-pa-nan, mo-yä-tchu pán-ni-na-k’ia ú-le. 68158. Large canteen of red ware with rattlesnake emblems on white ground. Me-he-tâ tsi-na shí-lo-a, tchí-to-la wí-to-pa-no-pa. 67788. Ditto, red. Shí-lo-a. 67823. Ditto, white, with depression on lower side. K‘o-ha-na, hé-k‘âi-é. 67794. Ditto, gray, with conical back. Lo-kia-na, k‘iä´-möstâ’i-é. 68195. Ditto, small, with representation of flower at back and string for suspension. Tsa-na ta ú-te-a wó-pa-no-pa; pí k‘ai-a-pa. 68210. Ditto, large red ware. 68153. Similar to preceding. 68215. Ditto, with cord for suspension. 68219. Ditto, without cord. 69867. Ditto, large. 67804. Ditto, small. ——. Ditto. 68160. Ditto, yellow. ——. Ditto, with sunflower rosette at apex. Ó-ma-tsa-pa-ú-te-a yä´thl-tâĭ-e. 67820. Ditto, white. ——. Ditto, white back and black base. 542 68191. Very large canteen of the cream-white ware, with red belly. Kô-ha-na, ta tsú-shi-lo-a. 68180. Ditto, plain, with rosette. Hé-pa-k‘in pä´-tchi-e. 68188. Ditto, with the ring, or star-pointed flower, on apex; red base, above which are the figures of the sacred butterflies represented in an arch. Ní-tse-k‘o-an-te ú-te-a thluai-a-pa, pú-la-k’ia-thlu-ai-yé-mük-nai-é. 68152. Ditto, with rattlesnake. Tchi-to-la tsím-u-lup-nai-e. 67802. Ditto, smaller. Tsa-nï-shi. 67821. Ditto, very small yellow ware. Hish-tsá-na, shi-lo-a tsí-na-e. 68171. Ditto, red. Shí-lo-a. 67793. Ditto, larger, with cord of Spanish bayonet. Thlúp-tsi-na, hó, pi-k‘ai-a-pa. 68167. Ditto, very large. 68161. Ditto, white, with sunflower, surrounded with speckled leaves and with smaller lobe at apex. Ó-ma-tsa-pa ú-te-a, su-pa-no-pa haĭ-a-we ú-lap-nai-e; tchá-set tâi-e. 67799. Ditto, plain red, with flower and butterfly decoration. Shi-lo-a, pú-la-kia kwin-ne, ta ú-te-a pä´-tchi-pa. 67817. Ditto, small, with representation of corn stalk surrounded by deer, crows, and black birds. Mí-tâ-an, shó-ho-i-ta, k’wá-la-shi ta tsuí-ya pä´-tchi-pa. ——. Ditto, with rosette at apex. He-pa-k‘i pä´-tchi-pa. 68178. Ditto, plain. Tsa-na, á-ho-na. 68164. Ditto, red, large, and flat backed. Shi-lo-a, ki‘a-pa yä´thl-tâi-e. 68154. Ditto, large, white, of ordinary form. ——. Ditto, with flower decoration at back. K‘ia-mus-tâi-ye, ú-te-a-pa. 68105. Ditto, small and flat, tsa-na, yäthl-k‘iä-tchun. ——. Ditto, red belly, with deer and sky figures on white ground. K‘o-ha-na yäthl-tâ, á-po-ya tsi-na, ta ná-po-a-pa. 67813. Ditto, plain black. Kwin-ne. 68202. Ditto, yellow, with rosette decoration. Thlúp-tsi-na, hé-pa-k‘in pä´-tchi e. ——. Ditto, very small, with white back. Tsa-na, k‘ó-han-yä´thl-tâi-e. 67818. Ditto, large, yellow. Thlup-tsi-na. ——. Ditto, red and white, with terraced road. Tsa-na, a-wi-thlui-a-pó-na-pa. 68226. Ditto, large, with rosette decoration. 67544. Small, double lobed canteen. Me-wi-k‘i-lik-ton kiä´-mo-li-an tsa-na. 67541. Ditto, of smaller size. 67543. Ditto, small. ——. Owl-shaped canteen. Mú-hu-kwi mé-he-ton-ne. 67744. Ditto, small, with holes through the wings for suspension. E-pï-se à-a’-pa. 67742. Ditto, large, red ware. Mú-hu-kwi mé-he-tâ shi´-lo-a. 543 67748. Ditto, large, ornamented in representation of the plumage of a bird. ——. Ditto, small. ——. Small barrel-shaped canteen, with round ends, showing emblems of mammaries. Mé-wi-k‘i-lik-ton, kwí-k’ia-pa kiä´ mo-lin a-óp-tsi-naì-é. 68177. Canteen, of earthen ware, decorated. Me-he-tâ tsí-na-pa. 67822. Ditto, small. Tsá-na. 68174. Ditto, of white ware. K‘ó-ha-na. 68197. Ditto, of red ware. Shí-lo-a. 68203. Ditto. 68190. Canteen of red ware. Shí-lo-a. 68196. Ditto. 68200. Toy canteen, with rosette decoration. Í-k‘osh-na-k’ia mé-he-tâ-tsa-na, hé-pa-k‘i tsí-na-pa. 68185. Ditto, red. Shí-lo-a. 67809. Ditto, with two small lobes at back. Í-yäthl-tâi-e. 67825. Small, double gourd-shaped water bottle of earthenware. Mé-wi-k’il-ik-ton shi-lo-a tsa-na. 67819. Large, bottle-shaped canteen. Mé-he-tâ k‘iä-mo-li-a muí-a-pa. ——. Small, decorated canteen. Mé-he-tâ. ——. Ditto, red ware, large. ——. Ditto, large, yellow. ——. Ditto, large, yellow ware with painted back. ——. Ditto, red ware, small. PITCHERS. 67110, 67113. Pitchers, small, plain, with handle, É-mush-to-we á-thla na, á-mui-a-pa. 67439. Small pitcher vase, for suspension. É-mush-ton té-tsa-na mú-to-pa. 67135. Small milking pitcher. Á-k’wi-k’iäsh-na-k’ia é-mush-ton tsa-na. 67101. Small, ancient pitcher. Í-no-to-na é-mush-ton tsa-na. 67103. Ancient pitcher, large. 66522. Ditto, of red ware. 67104. Ornamented pitcher, with representation of mountain lion for handle (broken). I-no-to-na é-mush-ton tsa-na, Hâk-ti-tä´sh-sha-na muí-ai-e. 67102. Ditto, rude. 67105. Ditto, large, decorated. 67116. Ditto, of red ware, decorated with black, long necked. 67141. Small, modern pitcher, of red ware, in ancient style. I-no-to-na án-te-li-ah-no-nai-e. 67319. Ditto, large, with handle. 67119. Ditto, with handle, made in imitation of ancient jar, dug up from ruins of Wí-mai-a. ——. Small milk pitcher. Á-k‘wi-k‘iäsh-na-k’ia, é-mush-ton thlúp-tsi-na. 544 67551. Small milk pitcher in the form of a shoe or moccasin. K‘wi-k‘iäsh-na-kia we-po-tchi té-tsa-na. 68384. Small pitcher of black earthen ware for heating water. K‘ia-k‘äthl-k‘ia-na-k’ia é-mush-ton-ne. 67137. Ditto, small, yellow ware. 67136. Small milking pitcher of yellow ware. ——. Milk pitcher, with handle, of decorated yellow ware. Á-k‘wi-k‘iäsh-na-k’ia é-mush-ton-ne. 68365. Small, black ware pitcher. Té-kwin tsa-na mui-ai-e. 67114. Small, decorated milk pitcher. É-mush-ton ne. 67089. Milk pitcher, plain. 67336. Ditto, large, with corrugated rim. É-mush-ton thlá-na. 67485. Ditto, with serpent or curved decoration. (Né-tsi-k‘on-ne.) 67127. Large, red milk pitcher. Á-k‘wi-k‘iäsh-na-k’ia é-mush-to thla-na, shí-lo-a. 67140. Ditto, undecorated. 67128. Ditto, plain. 68382. Ditto, for cooking. Wó-li-a-k’ia é-mush-ton thla-na. 68386. Ditto, small, tsá-na. 68383. Ditto. 68378. Ditto. 68385. Ditto, showing mud or clay used in sealing the mouth of the vessel while cooking sweet fermented meal or hé-pa-lo-kia. 68380. Ditto, plain. 68359. Ditto. 67106. Milk pitcher of ancient form. A-k‘wi-k‘iäsh-na-k’ia é-mush-ton, í-no-to-na. 67108. Ditto, with flaring rim and flower decoration. Sál-athl-k‘ia-pan-ne. 67094. Ditto, plain. 67087. Ditto, for white paint. He-tehl-hé-lin on-a-kia, sal-äthl-k‘ia-pan ne. 67124. Ditto, small, yellow ware. 67115. Ditto, with narrow opening, and flower decoration. 67139. Ditto, red ware. 67111. Ditto, decorated. 67117. Ditto, with scalloped rim. 67107. Ditto, tall, and vase-shaped, with flaring rim. 67339. Ditto, with contracted neck, and animal decoration, handle representing an antelope. 68356. Small pitcher for heating water. 68376. Large pitcher for cooking or heating water. Wo-li-a-k‘ia é-mush-ton-ne. ——. Large pitcher with animal-shaped handle. É-mush-ton thla-na-wó-ò-le ík-na muí-ai-e. 545 DRINKING CUPS AND CUP-SHAPED VESSELS. 67091, 67337, 67076. Handled drinking cups with flaring rim, decorated. Tú-tu-na-kia sá-mui-a-pa. 67326, 67109, 67095. Ditto, large. 67086, 67083, 67112. Ditto, small. 67082, 67077. Ditto, with representation of bear for handle. 67122, 67118. Ditto, large, yellow ware. 67131. Small, red ware drinking cup with handle. Tú-tu-na-k’ia sá-mui-a tsán-an-ne. 67098. Drinking cup with flaring rim. Sá-mui-a sá-tsa-na. ——. Bowl and pot shaped cooking vessels, plain and ornamented, with ears and small conical projections to facilitate handling while hot; among these are also enumerated paint pots, &c. Sa-we á-mui-a-pa. 67469, 67425. Small, toy, cooking vessels with row of ears. I-k‘osh-na-k’ia sá-mui-á-tsa-na. 67329. Large, handled cup. Sá-mui-an-ne. 68243. Small, handled cup. Sá-mui-a té-tsa-na. 68387. Water-holding cup. K‘ia-pa-ti-k’ia té-tsa-na. 67322. Small handled cup of yellow ware. Sá-mui-a té-tsa-na thlúp-tsi-na. 67138. Handled cup of yellow ware. Sá-mui-a té-thlup-tsi-na. 67079. Small, handled cup for water. K‘ial-i-k’ia sá-mui-an-ne. 67078. Small handled water cup. K‘ial-i-k’ia sá-mui-an-ne. ——. Handled cup with decoration of the sacred mantle. Sa-mui a hé-k‘wi-e-tchi tsí-na-pa. 67133. Small, handled, yellow ware cup. Sá-mui-an thlúp-tsi-na tsá-na. 67093. Small, handled cup with representation of growing flowers. Sa-mui-an-tsa-na ú-te-a wó-pa-no-pa. 68362. Small, knobbed cup for hot water. K‘iá-k‘iäthl-k‘ian-a-k’ia sá-mui-an tsá-na. 67132. Small, handled yellow cups. Sá-mui-a tsa-na á-thlup-tsi-na. 67081. Small flaring cup, with handle, with representations of stars and magic net-shield of war god. Sá-mui-an tsa-na sa-k‘ia-pan-ne, mó-yä-tchu, ta k‘iá-al lan pä-tchi-pa. 66911. Small flaring cup for children. Sá-k‘ia-pa-nan tsa-na. ——. Small red ware cups for children. Sá-tsa-na shi´-lo-a. 67126. Small milking cup of yellow ware, with handle. K‘wi-k‘iäsh-na-k’ia sá-mui-an tsa-na. 67335. Small cup, with handle and flaring rim, decorated with flowers. Sá-mui-an tsa-na, u-te-a ath´l-yel-lai-e. 67143. Small, handled cup. Sa-mui-a tsa-na shí-lo-a. ——. Small milking cup for little girl. A-k‘wi-k‘iash-na-k’ia sá-mui-an-tsa-na. 67090. Small, handled cup, with flaring rim for drinking. Sá-mui-a tsa-na sál-athl-k‘ia-pan-ne. 546 67092. Small, deep, decorated, handled cup. Sa-tsa-na múi-ai-e. 67120. Large handled milking cup of decorated red ware. Á-k‘wi-k‘iäsh-na-k’ia sá-shi-lo-a, muí-an tsí-na-pa. 67084. Small, plain, handled cup. Sá-mui-an-tsa-na. ——. Small water heating cup, with handle. K‘ia-kiäthl-k’ia-na-k’ia sa-mui-an tsá-na. 67332. Small drinking cup, with melon flower representation in center. K‘iá-li-k’ia sá-tsa-na a-te-an e-tâi-e. 67096. Small handled cup. Sá-mui-an tsa-na. 67328. Large decorated cup with handle. Sá-mui-an thla-na. 67099. Decorated cup, small. 67097. Ditto, large. 67338, Ditto, with animal shaped handle. BOWLS AND BASKETS. 67184, 67153, 67182, 67185, 67189. Sacred terraced basket bowls for medicine flour or meal, carried by chief priests of sacred dancers. K‘ia-wai-a wo-pu-k’ia á-wi-thlui-a-po-na sá-mu-te-a-pa. 67193. Ditto, with horned frog represented on outside, (Thlé-tchu), and tadpoles and dragon fly inside, shu-me-ko-lo ta mú-tu-li-k‘ia-wó-pa-no-pa. 67192. Ditto, with sacred rosette in center of bottom. Hé-pa-k‘i tsin é-tâ-i-e. 67172. Ditto, for sacred yellow flower paint. Ú-te-a he-lin ó-na-kia. 67303. Small bowl for white paint, used in decoration of dancers. Hé-ko-hak’ hé-lin-o-na-kia sá-tsa-na. 67055. Small white paint bowl. Hé-ko-hak’ hé-lin-o-na-kia sá-tsa-na. 67255. Bread bowl, decorated. Mo-tse-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 67233. Ditto, larger. 67220, 67264. Bread bowls. Mo-tse-na-k’ia-sá-we. 67267, 67227, 67242. Large bread bowls, with elaborate cloud decoration and figure of sky combined. Mo-tse-na-k’ia sa-we á-thla-na, lo-po-ya tsi-na-pa. 67202. Very large bread bowl, decorated inside with lightning passing between clouds and on outer surface with lightning passing between black rain clouds. Mó-tse o-na-kia mo-tse-na-k’ia sá-thla-na; wí-lo-lo-a thli-tâ ló-pi-kwai-nai-e wo-pa-no-pa; wí-lo-lo-a, áw-thlui-a-po-na á-shi-k‘ia-na tsí-na-pa. 66604. Large bread bowl, decorated. Mó-tse-na-k’ia sá-thla-na. 66935. Ditto, red ware, large. 67277, 67270. Elaborately decorated bread bowl. Mó-tse-na-k’ia sá-thla-na. 67217. Decorated bread bowl. Mo-tse-na-k’ia sá-thla-na. 66972. Small yellow ware eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-thlup-tsi-na. 67199, 66937. Ditto, for dance paint of cachínas. Shi-lo-a-hé-lin o-na-k’ia sa-we. 547 66945, 66944. Ditto, for serving food, decorated. 67204. Ditto, large, with á-wi-thluia-po-na ta thlí-ton (cloud-terrace and rain) represented. 66642. Ditto, white decorated ware. 66582, 66603, 66644. Ditto, with flaring rim. (Sál-athl-k’ia-pan) deer decoration and sacred plume sticks. 66612. Ditto, with lozenge decoration in lozenge figure. 67209. Ditto, with highly emblematic decoration. 66574. Ditto, very shallow. Í-to-na-kia sal´ athl-k‘ia-pan-ne. 67215, 66947. Small yellow ware eating bowls. I-to-na-k’ia sá-thlup-tsi-na. 67066. Ditto, small. 66819. Small eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66970, 66789, 66735, 66791. Ditto, used for paint. 66664. Eating bowl, larger. 66577, 67285, 66587, 67216. Ditto, large. Thlá-na. 66983. Small yellow ware eating bowl. Í-to-na-kia sá-thlup-tsi-na. 66938, 66941. Eating bowl, small, red ware. Shí-lo-a. 67206. Ditto, large. 66706, 66695. Ditto, of decorated ware. 65976. Ditto, for stone ash. (See above). 66956, 66916. Eating bowls, red ware white inside. I-to-na-kia sá-shi-lo-a. 66600. Ditto, decorated ware showing use as paint bowl. 66832. Ditto, decorated ware, small. 66805. Ditto, decorated ware, showing use as dye bowl. 66798, 66784. Ditto, eating bowls. 67254, 66760, 66957, 66749. Ditto, burned in open fire. (K‘ia-pi-na-nï-shi, or lú-ak-nai-e.) 56773. Ditto, deep. 66837. Ditto, small, burned in open fire. Lú-ak-nai-e. 67243. Ditto, showing traces of last hé-pa-lo-k’ia feast. 66848. Ditto, showing po-ye decoration. 66718. Ditto, showing sunflower decoration. 66831. Ditto, showing lineal decoration, ancient design. 67241. Ditto, very old. 66971. Ditto, showing house, world, and growing-plant design. 66761. Ditto, showing much use. 66993. Ditto, showing figures of pó-yi and gentile priests. 66739. Ditto, basin-shaped. Sál-athl-k‘ia-pan-ne. 66908. Very small decorated toy eating bowl. I-k‘osh-na-k’ia í-to-na-kia-sá-tsa-na. 67246. Small, decorated ware eating bowl. 66920, 67257. Ditto, new. 66830. Ditto, with elaborate star and plant design. 66783, 66765. Ditto, flower with four spear-like points in center. U-te-a-an k‘iä-tso-ta wó-pa-no-pa. 548 67262. Ditto, burned in open fire. Lú-ak-nai-e. 66774. Ditto, with falling rain represented. 66727. Ditto, with flaring rim, deep. 66748, 66876, 66703. Small eating bowl of decorated ware. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66588, 66810. Ditto, with elaborate but defined decoration. 66779, 66711, 67265, 66827, 67301, 67271. Ditto, with deer reversed and standing on twig. 66792, 66755. Ditto, showing use as vessel for white paint (used as whitewash). Hé-k‘e-tchu o-na-k’ia sá-we. 66776, 66918, 66781. Ditto, with flaring rim. 67203. Small eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 67278. Ditto, chaparral cock decoration. 67250. Ditto, burned on wood fire. 66741. Ditto, with river and tadpole represented. 66742. Ditto, ornamentation indistinct. 66632, 66551, 66553. Eating bowls of decorated ware, with flaring rim. Í-to-na-k’ia sál-athl-k’ia-pa-we. 66638, 66634. Ditto, large. 66636. Ditto, very large, with representation of female deer, ancient terrace house and “step” inclosed. Hé-wi-mäs-sin í-no-to-na, tá-shó-hŏ-i-t’o-k’ia pä´-tchi-e. 67295. Ditto, large, with rain cloud, star, and plant decoration. 66697. Small eating bowl, with deer and cloud decoration. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66569. Ditto, with representation of sky colors about rim. 66619, 66570. Ditto, with flower and plant decoration. 66926. Ditto, with house decoration. 67235. Ditto, flower decoration. 67231. Ditto, with flower and plant decoration. 66595. Ditto, with plant decoration. 66678. Ditto, with representation of sand burs. 66656, 66677. Ditto, with representation of antelopes. 66668. Ditto, with cloud pueblos and rainbow decoration. 66552. Ditto, cloud, star, floral, and deer decoration. 66594, 66685. Ditto, floral decoration. 67297. Ditto, with representation of world and steps to the skies. 66673. Ditto, with terrestrial cloud and doe decoration. 66593. Ditto, with cloud and curve decoration. 66679, 66726, 66601, 66684. Ditto, ditto, decoration indistinct. 66580. Ditto, red ware, with sacred corns represented. 67213, 66653, 66772, 66927, 66699. Ditto, flowers and falling rain. 66579. Ditto, terrace decoration. 66640. Ditto, flower decoration. 66648. Ditto, butterfly, cloud, and plant decoration. 67211. Ditto, deer, cloud, rain, and plant decoration. 67269. Ditto, plant and cloud decoration. 549 66573. Ditto, curve decoration. 66649, 67208. Ditto, flower, cloud, and arrow decoration. 66616. Ditto, with elaborate decoration. 66701, 66955, 66948. Red ware eating-bowls. 67205. Yellow ware eating-bowl. 66954. Ditto, the Great star. 66788, 66680. Small eating-bowls. 66670. Ditto, with floral, cloud, and star design elaborately worked up. 66662, 67222, 66554. Ditto, elaborate design. 66663, 66671, 66651, 66561. Ditto, with terrace form. 66609. Ditto, curve. 66637. Ditto, deer. 66652. Large eating bowl, with elaborate emblematic but indistinct decoration. 66672. Ditto, with rainbow decoration. 66811. Small eating-bowl of decorated ware. 66676. Eating-bowl of decorated ware. 67275. Small ancient eating-bowl of corrugated ware, decorated inside. Í-no-to-na ní-tu-li-a í-to-na-k‘ia sá-tsa-na. 66992. Eating bowl of gray ware, very ancient. Í-no-to-na í-to-na-kia sá-tsa-na. 66690. Ditto, with representation of woods. 66936. Ditto, modern red ware. 66820, 67256, 66919, 66840, 66790, 66764, 67021, 66881, 66995. Small decorated eating bowls. Í-to-na-kia sá-tsa-na tsí-na-pa. 67019. Ditto, sacred design in terraces representing clouds and rain. 66836. Ditto, with sacred butterfly decoration. 67000, 67027, 67001, 67008, 66973. Small red bowls. Sá-shi-lo-a á-tsa-na. 66962. Small basin-shaped bowl. Sal-athl-kia-pan-tsa-na. 67244. Small bowl, with additional rim. Sá-wi-yäthl ton-ne. 66974. Small yellow-ware bowl used in making the stone ash as yeast, and coloring matter, of blue guyave. Á-lu-k‘ia-lin hé-thli-a-k‘ian a-k’ia, sá-thlup-tsi-na. 67058. Very small, rude toy bowl. Í-k‘osh-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na pó-tcha. 67048. Ditto, of yellow ware. 67057. Very small, drinking cup of red ware. 67052. Bowl used for mixing mineral yeast and coloring matter of guyave and mush-bread. Á-lu-k‘ia-li-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 67317. Vase-shaped bowl of white ware. Sá-k‘ia-pa te-lé. 67180. Small scalloped-shaped medicine bowl. K‘ia-lin-o-na-kia sá-tsa-na ní-te-po-a-pa. 67157, 67166. Ditto, with terraced rim. (Á-wi-thlui-a-po-na.) 68247. Small black-ware bowl for toasting corn. 67013. Small decorated red-ware bowl. Sá-tsa-na shí-lo-a. 67446. Small toy bowl, decorated. Í-k‘osh-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 67284. Small ancient bowl. I-no-to-na sá-tsa-na. 67309. Ditto, red ware, modern. 550 67183. Ditto, large, with tadpole and frog decoration. 67071. Small toy bowl. I-k‘osh-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. ——. Small saucer bowl. Sal-athl-kia-pan tsa-na. 66495. Small-mouthed yeast souring bowl. Mo-tse ó-pi-k’ia-na-k’ia té-k‘iä-mo-li-a. 67343. Ancient bowl for the sacred medicine water belonging to the hereditary line of House Caciques of Zuñi (K‘ia-kwi-á-mo-si) and sold by stealth to me by the youngest representative of that body of priests. Shí-wan an k‘iä´-lin ó-na-k’ia sá-a-wi-thlui-a-po-na. See fig. 1, pl. xli. see caption Plate XLI.1. (67343) ZUÑI BOWL. 66828, 66835, 66872, 67240. Small drinking bowls. Té-tu-tu-na-k’ia sá-we á-tsa-na. 66896. Small drinking bowl showing use as paint bowl. Tú-tu-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66894. Ditto, showing elaborate phallic figure. Á sho-ha tsí-na-pa. 66901. Ditto, showing emblematic figure of the life of rain. 67035, 66997, 66984. Small red bowls. Sá-tsa-na shi-lo-a. 67059. Ditto, toy. 66852. Small bowl for serving food, with flaring rim. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-k‘ia-pan tsa-na. 66826. Ditto, burned in open wood fire. 66708. Ditto, with house and sky decoration in center. 68306, 68285. Small black-ware cooking bowls. Wó-li-a-k‘ia sá-we-á-tsa-na. 68236. Cooking bowl, with ears. Sá-mui-an tsa-na. 68259, 68277. Ditto, small. 68311. Ditto, large. 68265. Small cooking bowl, with indented rungs for ornamentation and utility (see notes). Wó-li-a-k’ia sá-tsa-na tsin´ ú-lap-nia-e. 68248, 68245, 68250, 67458. Small cooking bowls, with ears. Wó-li-a-k’ia sá-mui-a-tsa-na sa-we á-tsa-na. 68276. Ditto, in form of pot. Wó-li-a-k’ia té-tsa-na. 68246. Ditto, with ears. Wó-li-a-k’ia sá-mui-an tsa-na. 68461. Ditto, same. 68293. Cooking bowl, large. 68373, 68303, 68372, 66905. Ditto, small. 67168, 67156. Small sacred terraced bowl. 66975. Small mush bowl of yellow ware. Hé-k‘us-na wo-li-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66813. Small flaring eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na sál-äthl-k‘ia-pa-we. 66738. Small decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-k‘ia sá-tsa-na. 68267. Small bowl for heating water, with corrugated ears. K‘ia-k‘iäthl-k’ia-na-k’ia = té-ni-tu-lup-tchithl-na-pa. 67151. Large handled and terraced basket bowl for sacred meal or water. Á-wi-thlui-a-po-na sá-a-le he-po-a-yälthl-tâi-e, k’o-lo-wis-si ta mu-ta-li-k’ia wó-pa-no-pa. The figures of tadpoles rising from the water are emblematic of summer rains, etc. 551 66598. Medium-sized eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-a-le. 66782. Eating bowl, small sized. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-a-le. 66953. Medium-sized eating bowl. Í-to-na-kia sá-a-le, shí-lo-a. 66591. Medium-sized eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-a-le. 66643. Small-sized eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66628. Ordinary eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-a-le. 67144. Medium small red bowl. Sá-tsa-na shi-lo-a. 66964. Ordinary-sized eating bowl of red ware. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-shi-lo-a. 66682. Large eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-thla-na. 66801. Small decorated bowl. Sá-tsa-na tsi´-na-pa. 66681. Ordinary eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-a-le. 66584. Small eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66610. Ordinary eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-a-le. 66902. Small bowl. Sá-tsa-na. 67149. Small red bowl. Sá-tsa-na shí-lo-a. 67316. Ordinary eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-a-le. 66933. Small eating bowl with a-wi emblem. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na, á-wi-thlui-a wó-le. 67044. Small eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66691. Eating bowl of red ware, with e-tâ-k‘ó-ha-na or white emblem. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-shi-lo-a k‘ó-han-é-tâi-e. 66977. Bowl for mixing the stone-ash used as a yeast-powder, Á-lu-k‘iä-li-k‘ia sá-tsa-na. 66566, 66630, 65629. Eating bowls. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-a-le. 67260. Bread bowl. Mó-tse-na-k’ia sá-a-le. 66942. Eating bowl of red ware. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-shi-lo-a. 67302. Eating bowl, with flaring rim. Í-to-na-k’ia sál-athl-k’ia-pan-ne. 67188. Terraced basket bowl for sacred phallic flour. Á-wi-thluĭ a-po-na sá-ni-te-po-a-pa. 67191. Terraced medicine bowl. Ak-wa ó-na-k’ia a-wi-thlui-a-po-na sá-a-le. 66674. Eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-a-le. 67268. Small bowl. Sá-tsa-na. 67063, 66989. Small plain bowls. Sa-tsan á-wa-ho-na. 67005. Small bowl of red ware, with decoration. Sa-tsa-na shi-lo-a tsí-na-pa. 67150. Small, reddish-brown bowl. Sa-tsa ná-ho-na. 66639. Eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-a-le. 67289. Bread bowl. Mo-tse-ni-k’ia sá-a-le. 66716. Small bowl, with primitive decoration. Tâ-a sá-a-le. (Seed bowl.) 66558. Eating bowl, with decorations and emblems of the sacred butterfly. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na pú-la-k’ia wó-pa-no-pa. 66963. Eating bowl of yellow ware. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-thlup-tsi-na. 66605. Eating bowl. Í-to-na-kia sá-tsa-na. 67272. Eating bowl. Í-to-na-kia sá-a-le. 66863. Small bowl, with flaring rim. Sa-tsa-na sal-yäthl-k’ia-pan-a-kia sá-mui-an-ne. 552 66900. Small bowl. Sá-tsa-na. 67292. Large flaring eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-k‘ia-pa-nan thla-na. 66597. Eating bowl. I-to-na-kia sá-a-le. 66965. Eating bowl of black ware. I-to-na-k’ia sá-kwin-ne. 67165. Small sacred terraced bowl for medicine flour, with frog decoration. Á-wi-thlui-a sá-tsa-na ta-k‘ia wó-pa-no-pa. 67028. Small red bowl. Sa-tsa-na shí-lo-ā. 66693, 66705. Small eating bowls. I-to-na-kia sá-tsa-na. 66959. Small eating bowl, with gourd and beaded plume stick decoration. Í-to-na-kia sá-tsa-na tá-po-a wó-le. 67042. Small red ware bowl, with flaring rim. Sal-yäthl-k‘ia-pan tsa-na-shí-lo-a. 66922. Small bowl. Sá-tsa-na. 67070. Small bowl of red ware, made by child. A-tsa-na a-wa sá-tsa-na shí-lo-a. 66903. Small bowl, made by young girl in learning. Sa-tsa-na í-te-tchu-k’ia-no-na á-wi-te-la-ma á-wi-thlui-an an té-thlä-shi-na ú-le. 66720. Small bowl. Sá-tsa-na—with the four sacred terraces and altar-pictured center. 66631. Small eating bowl, with emblematic gourd-figure in center. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na, wí-to-pa-na tsí-na-pa. 67224. Eating bowl, with figures of medicine flowers inside. I-to-na-k’ia-sa-a-le, ak-wa ú-te-a wo-pa-no-pa. 67155. Small sacred meal bowl, with representations of summer and winter emblems of water, the tadpoles and the frog. Á-wi-thlui-a-pa sá-tsa-na, mu-tu-li-kia ta tá-k‘ia wó-pa-no-pa. 67167. Small terraced sacred meal bowl, with figures of tadpole or emblems in summer. Á-wi-thlu-i-a-pa sá-tsa-na; mú-tu-li-k’ia wó-pa-na-pa. 66635. Eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-a-le. 66884. Small bowl, with representation of the sacred cross-bows. Sá-tsa-na pí-thla-pa-na-pa. 66874. Small decorated bowl. Sá-tsa-na. 66939. Small plain eating bowl. I-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66806. Small decorated bowl. Sá-tsa-na. 66949. Small yellow eating bowl, with representations of the sacred gourd. I-to-na-k’ia sá-thlup-tsi-na wí-to-pa-na shí-lo-a. 67198. Yellow eating bowl. I-to-na-k’ia sá-thlup-tsi-na. 66898. Small plain toy eating bowl. A-tsa-na a-wen í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 67043, 67054. Small plain toy mush bowls. Í-k‘osh-na-k’ia he-k‘i wo-li-k’ia sá-we. 67281. Small toy eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na í-k‘osh-na-kia. 66913. Small toy bowl. Í-kosh-nan-a-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 67051. Small he ki bowl. He-k‘i wó-li-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 67177. Small scalloped medicine water bowl. K‘ial´-in on-a-k’ia sá-tsa-na ní-te-po-a-pa. 553 67153. Small terraced bowl for mixing medicine flour. K‘ia-wai-a o-na-k’ia, a-wi-thlui-a-po-na sá-tsa-na. 66808. Small bowl used as receptacle for white paint in the dance. He-k‘o-ha he-k‘i wo-li-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66943. Small red ware eating bowl. I-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na shí-lo-a. 66893. Small water bowl. K‘iä-li-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66698. Rude eating bowl, decorated with figures of birds. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na, wó-tsa-na wó-pa-no-pa. 66910. Small decorated water bowl. K‘iäl-i-k’ia sá-tsa-na tsí-nai-e. 67146. Small decorated water bowl. K‘iäl-i-k’ia sá-tsa-na tsí-na-pa. 67010. Small decorated red ware bowl. Sá-tsa-na shí-lo-a tsí-na-pa. 66985. Small red ware eating bowl. I-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na shí-lo-a. 67282. Small eating bowl, with cross lightning and star decoration on rim. Í-to-na-kia sá-tsa-na, tsi-na-wé-lo-lon, ta mó-ya-tchu po-ai-yäthl-yel-la. 66875. Small decorated plate. Sál-athl-k‘ia-pan tsa-na. 66743. Small white eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na-k‘ó-han-na. 66807. Small decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 67007. Small red bowl, with flaring rim for water. K‘iäl-i-k’ia sá-tsa-na-shi-lo-a sál-yäthl-k‘ia-pan-ne. 66730. Small decorated mush bowl. Hé-k’us-na wo-li-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 67047. Small bowl for mixture of yellow paint. Thlúp-tsi-na hé-lin-o-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66750. Small decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66857. Small decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-kia sá-tsa-na. 67064. Small yellow drinking bowl. Tú-tu-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na thlúp-tsi-na. 66816. Small decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66736. Small decorated eating bowl with flaring rim. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na sál-äthl-k‘ia-pan-ne. 67259. Small decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-kia sá-tsa-na. 66731. Small eating bowl with emblems of star in center. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na mó-yä-tchun-thla-na é-tâi-e. 66823. Small eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66793. Small eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 67045. Small water bowl. Tú-tu-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66787. Ditto, flaring rim and representation of sacrificial plumes. Sal-yäthl-k’ia pan tethl na wó-pa-no-pa. 66794. Ditto, with representations of the rain clouds and falling rain at sunset. Ló-te-po-a-pa, ta yä-ton-kwa-ton te-thli-tâ pä-ni-le-a. 67247. Ditto, with the four rising terraces. Á-wi-thlui a ú-kwai-shon-nai-e. 67020. Ditto, marks indistinguishable. Tsi-na thlú-sho. 67244. Ditto, with representations of horses. Tush é-tâi-e. 66606. Ditto, white. K‘ó-ha-na. 66608. Water bowl, larger. 66669. Large bread bowl. Mó-tse-nï kia sá-thla-na. 554 66576. Ditto, with deer decoration, house in center, representations of man’s abodes and sacred plumes. Ná-pa-no-pa, hé-sho-ta ta thla-pan lá-kwai-nai-é. 66622. Eating bowl with flower decorations. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-a-le, ú-te-a-wóthl-e-tâi-é. 66728. Ditto, small. Tsá-na. 66641. Ditto, large, with addition of sacred bird butterfly. Wó-tsa-na-pú-la-k’ia. 66740. Ditto, with cloud lines. 66704. Ditto, with flaring rim and lightning terrace design. Wé-lo-lo-a ta á-wi-thlui-a-po-na tsí-na-pa. 66586. Ditto, with same decoration. 66611, 67294. Ditto, larger. 67291. Ditto, large, with cloud decoration. 67212. Large plain yellow ware eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-thla-na thúlp-tsi-na. 67210. Ditto, for mixing bread. Mó-tse-nï-k’ia. 67214. Ditto, very large with red rim. 66658, 66929, 66560. Decorated eating bowls. I-to-na-k’ia sa-thla-na tsí-na-pa. 66626, 67223. Large decorated bread bowls. Mó-tse-nï-k’ia sá-we á-thla-na. 66657. Ditto, with ornate representation, of sacred sky terraces and falling wind-driven rain in sunlight. 67229, 67230. Ditto, cloud and flower decoration. 66733. Small decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-kia sá-tsa-na. 66766. Ditto, with sky terrace inclosing clouds. 66753, 66734, 66710, 66686, 66696. Ditto, with star flower. 67290, 66795. Ditto, for mixing white-wash. K‘é-tchep o-na-kia. 66915, 66809. Ditto, with white cross decoration. 67006, 66883, 66880, 66850, 66800, 66785, 67225, 67148. Ditto, red ware. 67145, 66702. Ditto, yellow ware. 67011. Ditto, very small. 67296, 66887. Ditto, decorated. 67280, 66635, 67252. Large decorated bread bowls. Mó-tse-nï-k’ia sá-thla-na tsí-na-pa. 67286, 67258. Small sized bread bowls. Mó-tse-nï-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 67248. Bread bowl of ordinary size. Mó-tse-n ï-k’ia sa-a-le. 67200. Scalloped medicine bowl. K‘iä´-lin o-na-k’ia sá-ni-te-po-a-pa. 67178. Terraced bowl for the manufacture of the “yellow flower medicine paint,” used in the decoration of the dance costume, or Kâ-kâ thlé-a-pa. Á-we-thlui-a-po-na sa-a-le, u-te-a hel-in o-na-kia. 66498. Small red bowl. Sá-tsa-na. 66620. Small bowl. Sá-tsa-na. 66590. Bread bowl. Mó-tse-nï-k’ia sá-a-le. 555 66567, 66625, 67266. Eating bowls. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-a-le. 66615. Eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-a-le. 68238. Large cooking bowl. Wó-le-a-k’ia sá-thla-na. 66564. Eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-a-le. 66814. Small bowl. Sá-tsa-na. 66815. Small bowl. 66589. Eating bowl. 68314. Small cooking bowl with protuberances to facilitate removal from fire. Wó-le-a-k’ia sá-mui-a-po-na. 67162. Small scalloped bowl. Sá-tsa-na ní-te-po-a-pa. 66865. Small bowl. Sá-tsa-na. 66851, 66692, 66802. Small bowls. 66647. Large eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-thla-na. 67460. Small cooking bowl with protuberances to facilitate handling. Sá-mui-a-po-na tsa-na. 66821. Small bowl. 66946. Small red ware bowl for eating. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na shí-lo-a. 68230. Cooking bowl with protuberances to facilitate removal from fire. Wó-li-a kia sá-mui-an-ne. 67187. Small terraced bowl for sacred medicine flour. Á-wi-thlui-a-po-na sá-tsa-na. 66914. Very small bowl with emblem of morning star. Sá-tsa-na, mo-yä-tchu-thla-na e-tai-e. 66795. Small eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 67433. Small obliquely corrugated bowl. Sa-tsa-na k‘é-te-kwi-äs-sël-a-pa. 67300. Small bowl. 66557. Large eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-thla-na. 66560. Eating bowl. 67232, 67234. Large eating bowls. 67026. Small bowl for mixture of stone ash used as yeast. Á-lu-we sá-tsa-na. 66715. Small bowl. 66719. Small eating bowl with flaring yellow rim. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na sa-kia-pa thlúp-tsi-na. 67067, 67062, 67065. Small red ware bowls for children. Sá-tsa-na-we, á-tsa-na á-wa. 67142. Small scalloped rimmed bowl, red. Sá-tsa-na shí-lo-a ní-te-po-a-yä´thl-yel-lai-e. 67306. Small red ware bowl. Sá-tsa-na shí-lo-a. 66778. Small decorated bowl. Sá-tsa-na tsí-na-pa. 66614. Mush bowl. Mú-k‘ia-pa wó-li-k’ia sá-a-le. 68348. Small cooking bowl with protuberances for handles. Wo-li-a-k’ia sá-mui-an tsa-na. 68366. Small new cooking bowl with ears. Wó-li-a-k’ia sá-mui-an tsa-na. 67201, 66862-66854. Small decorated bowls. Sá-tsa-na-we, á-tsi-na-pa. 66990. Small red eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-shi-lo-a tsá-na. 556 68305. Small cooking bowl with ears. Wó-li-a-k’ia sá-mui-an-ne. 66627, 66580. Decorated eating bowls. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-a-le. 66713. Small decorated eating bowls. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66978. Small red bowl for mixture of he-k‘i, a kind of white paint, also mush. He-k‘i wo-li-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 67164. Small terraced bowl for sacred meal. Á-wi-thlui-a-po-na sá-tsa-na. 66860. Small decorated bowl. Sá-tsa-na. 67449. Small flaring toy bowl. I-k‘osh-na-k’ia sá-k‘ia-pau-an tsa-na. 67476. Small rude earthenware bowl, made by child. Á-tsa-na a-wa sá-tsa-na. 68292. Small cooking bowl of black ware, with ears. Wo-li-a-k’ia sá-mui-an tsa-na. 67287. Small bowl. Sá-tsa-na. 66700. Small decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66633. Old decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sa-a-le. 66951. Red ware eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-shi-lo-a. 67331. Small white handled bowl. Sá-mui-a k‘ó-ha-na tsa-na. 66818. Small bowl with conventional representations of lightnings and growing shrubs. Sá-tsa-na, wí-lo-lo-a ta á-hai-a pä´-tchi-pa. 66879. Small decorated eating bowl for children. Á-tsa-na a-wa í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 68841, 66847. Small eating bowls with sacred dance decorations, etc. Sá-tsa-na, hé-wi-e-tchi tsí-na-pa. 66873. Small eating bowl. I-to-na-kia sá-tsa-na. 67031. Small red water-bowl. K‘ia-li-k’ia sá-tsa-na shí-lo-a. 68251. Small black ware bowl for poaching. Á-le-kwï-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 68364. Small bowl for cooking medicine herbs. K‘ia-he-k’ia k‘iäthl-k‘ia-na-k‘ia sá-mui-an tsa-na. 67345. Double salt and chili bowl. Ma-pu-k’ia té-wi-pa-tchin, muí-ai-e. 68328. Small cooking vessel with ears. Kiá-kiäthl-k’ia na-k’ia sá-mui-an-tsa-na. 67308. Small plain yellow water bowl. K‘ia-li-k’ia sá-thlup-tsi-na tsa-na. 68239. Small cooking bowl with ears. Sá-mui-an tsa-na. 68231. Small cooking bowl with scalloped rim. Wó-li-a-k’ia sá-tsa-na-wi-kop-tchi-äthl-yel-ai-e. 66825. Small eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia-sá-tsa-na. 66912. Small decorated toy bowl. I-k‘osh-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 68294. Small cooking bowl with ears. Wó-li-a-kia sá-mui-an tsa-na. 66751. Small eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 67279. Small eating bowl with figures of gentile quail or chaparral cocks, and flowers. Í-to-na-kia-sa-tsa-na, po-yi ta ä´-te-a wó-pa-no-pa. 68355. Small cooking bowl. Wó-li-a-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 67017. Small eating bowl. I-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 557 66578. Large flaring rimmed eating bowl with figures of wing feathers, &c., for decoration. I-to-na-k’ia sá-thla-na sal-athl-k‘ia-pan, la-kwai-na-tsín-e-tâi-é. 66571. Large eating bowl decorated with antelope, sacred plumes and red lightning figures. I-to-na-kia sá-thla-na, na-pa-na, ta thla-pa-we pä´-tchi-pa. 67002. Small water bowl of red earthen with sunflower decoration in bottom. Sa-tsa-na shi-lo-a. O-ma-ta-pa-u-te-a é-tâi-e. 66969. Small red eating bowl with figure of star in center. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na mo-yä-tchun é-tâi-e. 67014. Small flaring rimmed bowl with uncompleted decoration. Í-k‘osh-na-kia sal´-yäthl-k‘ia-pan shi lo-a, tsi-na yá-nam tsí-nai-e. 66890. Small drinking vessel with flaring rim. K‘ia-li-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66845. Small white eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na k‘ó-ha-na. 68232. Small cooking bowl. Wó-li-a-kia sá-tsa-na. 68268. Small cooking bowl with ears. Wó-li-a-kia sá-mui-an tsa-na. 68291. Ditto, larger. 66846. Small eating bowl with representations of arrows. Í-to-na-k’ia sa-tsa-na, tí-mush wó-pa-no-pa. 67039. Small bowl for mixture of yellow flower paint. He-lin thlup-tsi-na on-a-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 67314. Ancient form of the sacred medicine bowl used by the order of the Rattlesnake. Tchí-k‘ia-li-kwe a-wën kiä-lin o-na-k’ia sá-a-le. Tadpole and frog decoration. 66493. Small ornamentally painted yeast bowl. Mo-tse o-na-k’ia sá-a-le té-tsi-na-pa. 67154. Sacred terraced medicine water bowl of the order of the ancient knife; frog, and dragon fly decorations. A-tchi-a-kwe a-wën k‘ia-lin o-na-kia á-wi-thluia-po-na sá-thla-na. 67159, 67169. Ditto, small for medicine. 67195. Ditto, large, of resigned member of sacred order. Tchu-ne-k‘oa-án. ——. Bowl. Sá-a-le. 66804. Bowl. Sá-a-le. 68256. Small bowl for heating water. K‘iap-a-ti-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 68300. Small cooking bowl with small protuberating handles. Wó-li-a-k’ia sá-mui-an-ne. 67305. Eating bowl of yellow ware. I-to-na-kia sá-thla-na, tsi-na-shi-lo-a é-tâi-e. 66861, 67053, 66746. Small bowls. Sa-we-á-tsa-na. 67179. Small scalloped medicine water bowl. K‘iä´-lin o-na-k’ia ní-te-a-po-na sá-a-le. ——. Small phallic meal bowl with emblematic terraces. K‘ia-wai-a wó-li-k’ia á-wi-thlui-a sá-tsa-na. 67194. Sacred medicine water bowl with emblematic terraces, K‘iäl-in-ó-na-k’ia sá-thla-na. 558 66923. Small bowl with emblematic hook decoration. Sá-tsa-na né-tsi-k‘o-pa. 66859. Small bowl with emblems of growing vines and flowers. Sa-tsa-na ä´-te-a ta pí-wa-na-pa. 66665. Small eating bowl. I-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na thla-e ta ú-te-a pä´-tchi-pa (with representation of sacred plume sticks and flowers.) 67170. Small sacred meal terraced bowl. Á-we-thluí-a-po-na sá-tsa-na. 66602. Large eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-thla-na. ——. Small bowl with figures of the hunting-deer. Sá-tsa-na ná-pa-na-pa. 66675. Small eating bowl. I-to-nu-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66855, 66780. Small bowls. ——. Small decorated eating bowl. I-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na tsí-na-pa. 67245. Large decorated bread bowl. Mo-tse nï-k’ia sá-thla-na. 66822. Small bowl decorated with sacred terraces. Sa-tsa-na á-we-thluia-pa tsí-na-pa. 66660. Eating bowl with flaring rim decorated with Kâ-kâ checks. Í-to-na-kia sá-a-le, su-po-li äth´l-yel-lai-e. 66967. Small yellow eating bowl with representation of scalloped lightning at rim. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na thlúp-tsi-na wí-k’op-tchi-al-äthl-yel-lai-é. 66659. Small decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na tsí-na-pa. 67218. Small eating bowl with representation of shield rosette. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na, hé-pa-k’in é-tâ tsí-nai-e. 66572. Eating bowl decorated with figures of tufted jay. Í-to-na-k‘ia sa-thla-na maí-a wó-pa-no-pa. ——. Large totemic eating bowl with representations of the gentile crane. Í-to-na-kia sá-thla-na, á-no-te Kâl-ök-ta wó-pa-no-pa. 66707. Small decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-kia sá-tsa-na. 67221. Small decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-kia sá-tsa-na. 66940. Small red ware eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-shi-lo-a tsa-na. 66666, 66599. Decorated eating bowls. Í-to-na-k’ia-sá-a-le. 66799. Small bowl. 67032. Small yellow bowl. Sá-tsa-na thlúp-tsi-na. 66767. Small bowls. 66966. Small red eating bowl, decorated. I-to-na-kia sá-tsa-na shí-lo-ā. 66866. Small bowl with flaring rim and ancient terrace decoration. Sa-tsa-na, áthl-yäl-a-pan tsí-na-pa. 66858. Small bowl. Sá-tsa-na. 66856. Small bowl with representations of birds and emblematic wings. Sá-tsa-na, wó-tsa-na, ta é-pïs-se wó-pa-no-pa. 66917. Small decorated bowl. Sá-tsa-na. 66886. Small flaring rimmed bowl. Sá-tsa-na sá-k‘ia-pá-nanne. 66958. Small decorated eating jar. Í-to-na-k’ia té-tsa-na. ——. Small decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66930. Large red eating bowl. I-to-na-k’ia sá-thla-na shí-lo-ā. 559 66617. Decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-a-le. ——. Small cooking bowl with ears. Wó-li-a-k’ia sá-mui-an-ne. 66568. Decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-a-le, ná-pa-no-pa. 66987. Small red bowl. Sá-shi-lo-a tsa-na. 66797. Small, much-worn eating bowl. I-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. ——. Eating bowl, remarkable for the decoration, which is an ornate representation of the God of the winged knife, or thunderbolt. I-to-na-k’ia sá-a-le, Ä-tchi-a la-to-pa, pá-tchi-é. 67239. Bread bowl with representation of sacred birds in rain storm. Mó-tse-na-k’ia sá-a-le, k‘iä-she-ma wó-tsa-na wó-pa-no-pa. 66777. Small child’s eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 67123. Small milk bowl of red ware, with handle. A-k‘wi-k‘iäsh-na-k’ia sá-mui-a shí-lo-a. 67160. Small sacred water bowl for suspension from hand in distribution of the medicine drinks; an example of the decorative style of the secret order of fire Ma-k’e-tsá-na-kwe—“little fire people”—to which it once belonged—during their public dance-ceremonials. Á-wi-thlui-a-po-na sá-a-le, Ma-ke tsá-na-kwe a-wa thle-ap ó-kwai-tu-no-na, shú-me-ko-lo, mú-tu-li-k’ia, ta tá-k‘ia wó-pa-no-pa. 66737. Small decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 67606. Small decorated bowl. Sá-tsa-na. ——. Small cooking bowl with ears. Wó-li-a-k’ia sá-mui-an tsa-na. ——. Small plain red bowl. Sa-tsa-na shí-lo-ā. 67022. Small decorated bowl. Sá-tsa-na. 67238. Small decorated water bowl. K‘ia-li-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 68283. Small cooking bowl. Wo-li-a-k’ia sá-mui-an tsa-na. 67049. Small rude toy white-wash-bowl. He-k‘i wó-li-po-k’ia sá-tsa-na, í-k‘osh-na-kia. 66868. Small decorated bowl. Sa-tsa-na áthl-yel-a-pa. 66999. Small plain red bowl. Sa-tsa-na shí-lo-a. 66770. Small water bowl with decorations of the altar stones. K‘ial-li-k’ia sa-tsa-na á-tesh-kwi pä´-tche-pa. ——. Small plain yellow bowl. Sá-thlup-tsi-na tsa-na. 68275. Small cooking bowl with protuberances for handling. Wo-li-a-k’ia sá-mui-an tsa-na. 66230. Plain yellow ware eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-a-le. 66714. Small decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na tsí-na-pa. ——. Small red eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-shi-lo-a tsa-na. ——. Small bowl with flaring rim. Sá-tsa-na sál-athl-k‘ia-pa-na. 67341. Small bowl of corrugated ware, made in ancient form. Ní-tu-li té-tsa-na. ——. Small terraced medicine meal bowl. K‘ia-wai-a wo-li-kia á-wi-thlui-a-pa sá-tsa-na. 66747. Small decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66924. Small bowl with flaring rim. 560 ——. Small cooking bowl. Wó-li-a-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 57181. Ancient sacred bowl for medicine water. Í-no-to-na, Ti-kiën k‘ial-i-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 67298. Large decorated eating bowl with flaring rim. I-to-na-k’ia sa-thla-na, sál-yathl-k‘ia-pan-ne. ——. Large cooking bowl with ears. Wo-li-a-k’ia sá-mui-an-ne. 66817. Small water bowl with obliquely decorated flaring rim. Sa-tsa-na-áthl-yel-lai-e, tsi-na k‘iä-shuk-ta áthl-yel-lai-e. 66853. Small bowl decorated with half lozenges at rim, and with growing field in center. K‘ial-i-k’ia sá-tsa-na, wí-k‘op-tchi-yäl-athl-yel-la, ta tá-ä-tchi-nan á-tâ tsí-na-pa. ——. Small red eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na shí-lo-a. ——. Small cooking bowl with corrugated rim. Wo-li-a-k’ia sá-tsa-na, muí-yäthl-yel-la. 68242. Small cooking bowl with ears. Wo-li-a-k’ia sá-mui-an tsa-na. 66796. Small decorated eating bowl. I-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 68297. Large cooking bowl with ears. Wo-li-a-k’ia sá-mui-an thla-na. 69871. Bowl for heating water. K‘ia-k‘iäthl-k’ia-na-k’ia sá-a-li. 66953. Eating bowl of yellow ware. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-thlup-tsi-na. 68363. Small cooking bowl used for heating. Ki‘athl-k‘ia-na-k‘ia sá-a-le. 67163. Small terraced bowl for the mixture of the sacred paint of flowers. U-te-a hé-lin-o na-kia á-wi-thluia-pa sá-tsa-na, shú-me-k‘o-lo ta tá-k‘ia wó-pa-no-pa. 67378. Portion of a pepper dish. K‘ó-wo-pu-k’ia té-le í-pä-tchi-nai-e. ——. Large decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-a-le. 66752. Small white eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na k‘ó-ha-na. 67161. Small terraced bowl for mixture of sacred medicine water. K‘ia-lin o-na-k’ia á-wi-thlui-a-pa sá-a-le, mu-tu-lï-k‘ia wó-pa-no-pa. 67174. Small terraced medicine water bowl. K‘iá-lin-o-na-k’ia á-wi-thlui-a-po-na sá-tsa-na. ——. Small red water bowl. K‘ial-i-k’ia sá-tsa-na shí-lo-a. 66583. Small decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66961. Small, plain, red eating bowl, white inside. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-shi-lo-a, k‘o-han é-tâi-é. 67175. Small scalloped bowl, of knife order, for sacred water. Ní-te-po-a-pa k‘iä-lin o-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. ——. Small bowl for pouring the hot mush used in making hé-we or guyave. Hél-o na-k’ia-he-k‘iäthl-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66986. Small eating bowl of plain red ware. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na shí-lo-a. 66729. Small decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66867. Small decorated water bowl. K‘ia-li-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 67276. Large decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-thla-na. 67679. Small red ladle bowl. Wo-li-k’ia sá-sho-kon mui-ai-e. 66869. Small decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 561 66721. Small eating bowl with flaring rim. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na, ä´thl-yel-lai-e. 67219. Small eating bowl with conventional representation of spotted lightning about the rim. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na, wé-lo-lo-na sú-pa-no-pa tsí-na ä´thl-yel-lai-e. 66624. Decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-a-le, tsí-nai-e. 66996. Small bowl decorated in center with figure of tarantula among flowers or plants. Sá-tsa-na, ó-ha-tchi-k‘ia-pa é-tâi-e. ——. Small red bowl with Gentile quail figured in center, Sá-tsa-na-shi-lo-a, po-yi tsín e-tâi-e. 66885. Small decorated eating bowl, rim flaring. Sá-tsa-na sál-athl-k‘ia-pan-ne. 66870. Small eating bowl showing burnt decoration. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na, tsi-na tchá-pi-nai-e. 66838. Small decorated bowl. Sá-tsa-na tsí-na-pa. 66824. Small bowl with figure of morning star in center. Sá-tsa-na, mo-yä-tchun tsín e-tâi-e. 67080. Small handled bowl with ornate figure of one of the God stars. Sá-mui-an tsa-na, té-thlä-shi-na tsín-mo-yä-tchu é-tâi-e. ——. Small flaring yellow earthen bowl. Sá-tsa-na thlúp-tsi-na sál-athl-k‘ia-pan-ne. 67307. Small yellow earthen water bowl. K‘iä´-li-k’ia sá-thlup-tsi-na tsa-na. 66694. Small deer decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na ná-pa-no-pa. 67024. Small decorated bowl. Sá-tsa-na tsí-na-pa. ——. Small terraced basket bowl for sacred flour. K‘iá-wai-a wó-pu-k’ia á-we-thlui-a-pa sá-tsa-na, mú-te-po-a-pa. 66889. Small flaring rimmed red drinking bowl. K‘iä´-li-k’ia sál-athl-k‘ia-pan tsa-na. 66618. Very old eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-thlä-shi. 68233. Small cooking bowl with protuberances. Wó-li-a-k’ia sá-mui-an-ne. 67456. Small saucer shaped toy bowl. Á-tsan a-wa sál-athl-k‘ia-pan tsa-na. 68272. Small cooking bowl. Wó-li-a-k’ia sá-tsa-na. ——. Small shallow decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-te-ko-ni tsa-na. 67025. Very small eating bowl for children. Á-tsa-na a-wa í-to-na-k’ia-sá-tsa-na. 66833. Ditto, with figure of wild sunflower. Tsan-a-wa í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na, o-ma-tsa-pa tsín e-tâi-e. 66756. Small decorated flaring rimmed eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na sál-athl-k‘ia-pan-ne. ——. Small red flaring bowl. Sál-athl-k‘ia-pan tsa-na shí-lo-a. 66683. Large decorated eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-thla-na. 562 66621. Ditto, flaring rim with house and flowers represented in center. K‘iá-kwe, ta ú-te-a ú-lap-na tsín e-tâi-e. ——. Ditto, with flower decoration inside. Ú-te-a wó-pa-no-pa. 66559. Ditto, with sacred terraces and flowers. Á-we-thlui-a ta ú-te-a wó-pa-no-pa. ——. Eating bowl, small, red. Shí-lo-a, tsá-na. 66864. Ditto, with flaring rim and representations of lightning and sacred plumes. Téthl-na ta wí-lo-loa wó-pa-no-pa. 66757. Ditto, large, with representation of centipedes. Shó-la wó-pa-no-pa. 66646. Ditto, with representation of the world, sacred terrace or homes of man, and growing plants sheltered by clouds. Ú-lâch-nan, ló-te-po-a-pa á-wi-thlui-a-pan ta kwan-haí-a é-tâ-pa. 66843. Ditto, with flower decoration. Ú-te-a wó-pa-no-pa. 66960. Ditto, of red ware, with representation of red cloud. Ló-te-po-a-pa. 66932. Ditto, large, with decoration of scrolls. Thlá-na, ni-tsi-k’ia wó-pa-no-pa. ——. Ditto, small, with flaring rim. Tsá-na sál-athl-k‘ia-pan-é. ——. Ditto, with fret like figures of houses. K‘iá-kwe-pa-tâi-e. 66871. Ditto, with flower decoration. Ú-te-a wó-pa-no-pa. 68284. Cooking bowl with protuberances. Wó-li-a-k’ia sá-mui-a-tsa-na. 68331. Ditto, small. Tsá-na. 68330. Small cooking bowl with representation of intestinal band. Wó-li-a-k’ia sá-tsa-na, k’ól í-tu la-nai-e. 68353. Ditto, with protuberances. Sá-mui-ai-e. ——. Cooking bowl, larger. ——. Bowl for mixture of paint-sizing. Ná-he-lin o-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 67173, 67496, 67152. Small terraced bowl for sacred flour used by high priest of the dance. Á-wi-thlui-a-po-na sá-tsa-na, mi-ta-li-k‘o pä´-tchi-pa. ——. Cooking bowl with long legs. Wó-li-a-k’ia té-sa-kwi-pa. ——. Ditto, without legs. Sá-tsa-na. 66769. Small eating bowl. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66689, 66725. Ditto, flaring. Sál-athl-kia-pan-ne. ——. Small bowl for mixing white paint. K‘o-ha hé-lin o-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66623. Eating bowl with representations of sacrificial plumes. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na, téthl-na-we wó-pa-no-pa. 66654. Ditto, with representation of house and flowers. K‘ia-kwën é-ton nan ú-te-a kwaí nai-é. 66928. Ditto, red ware with representation of red cloud in center. Shí-lo-a, ló-shi-lo-a té-po-a-pa. 66613. Small bowl for sacred paint of the dance, ancient. Kâ´ i-se-ton-tsa-na hé-li-po-kia. 66667, 66661. Larger bowl used for same purpose. 563 66687. Ditto, very ornate and smaller. 60762. Small eating bowl, with central flower, &c., design. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na, ú-te-a wó-pa-no-pa. 66722. Ditto, with world clouds and growing plants represented. 66565. Eating bowl, larger. 66607. Ditto, star and plant design. 66834. Small water bowl. K‘iä´-li-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 66830. Ditto, with flaring rim. 66709, 67237, 66717. Ditto, for serving food. 68312, 68315. Small cooking-bowl, with ears. Sá-mui-an tsa-na. 68273, 68320, 68308, 68295. Cooking bowl, larger. 68323, 68337. Ditto, large. 68289, 68310. Ditto, small. 68288. Ditto, large and deep. Té-mui-an-ne. 69872, 68270. Ditto, large. 67304, 67038, 67034, 67036, 67003, 67041, 67046, 66998, 67009. Small shallow drinking bowls of red ware. K‘iä´-li-k’ia sá-we á-shi-lo-a. 68367. Small cooking or water heating vessel with corrugated ornamentation about neck. K‘iá-kiäthl-k‘ia-na-k‘ia té-tsa-na k‘ó-nit u-lap-nai-é. 68282. Small cooking bowl. Wó-li-a-k’ia té-we á-tsa-na. 68262. Ó-lo-i-k’ia-nan, á-wi-thlui-a-po-na sá-tsa-na. “For summer ceremonials, a sacred terraced bowl.” ——. Cooking bowl, larger, with addition of frog. 68377. Modern imitation of ancient corrugated ware cooking vessel. Wó-li-a-kia té-ni-tu-li tsa-na. 67176, 67190. Terraced sacred meal basket bowl. K‘ia-wai-a wó-pu-k’ia á-wi-thlui-a-po-na sá-mu-te-po-a-pa. 67072. Small toy bowl. Í-k‘osh-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na. 67060, 66921, 66899, 66897. Small drinking bowls. K‘iä´-li-k’ia ta tú-tu-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na-we. 66904. Ditto, with plant decoration. 66925, 68370, 67012, 67018, 6751. Ditto, emblematic flower bird figures. Ú-te-a-wó-tsa-na tsí-na-pa. 66906, 66907, 66892. Small drinking bowls for thin broth. He-k‘i tú-tu-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na-we. 66812, 66786, 66877, 66844, 66888. Ditto, for serving food. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-tsa-na-we. 66882, 67004, 66950, 66758, 66744, 66712, 66724, 67260, 66745, 66754, 66763, 66842, 66849-67334-66878, 67299. —— Ditto, flower and star decoration. 67186. Ditto, tad-pole decoration. 68307. Bowl for toasting or parching corn-meal, used by children (girls) in learning. Wó-le-k’wi-k’ia sá-tsa-na, a-tsa-na a-wa yä´-’ni-k’ia. 564 68316. Small cooking bowl, remarkable for corrugation representing the rising of the boiling waters of a flood. Wó-li-a-k’ia sá-tsa-na, án-u-kwai-k’ia án-te-li-ah-na mú-to-pa. ——. Ditto, plain, very small. 68261. Ditto, with ears. Sá-mui-an-ne. 68318, 68258. Cooking bowl, large. 68279, 68280, 68321, 68317, 68324, 68302, 68286. Ditto, small. 68309, 68298. Ditto, shallow. 69870. Ditto, large. 68257. Ditto, deep. 66895. Small bowl. Sá-tsa-na. 67050. Small flaring bowl. Sá-tsa-na sál-athl-k‘ia-pan-ne. ——. Small red bowl. Sá-tsa-na shí-lo-ā. ——. Ditto, with ears. Sá-mui-an tsa-na. COOKING POTS. 67327, 67333. “Pitcher pot,” elaborately decorated. É-mush-ton té-thla-na. 67098. Ditto, small. 66494. Red ware yeast pot, with ancient decoration. Mó-tse-po-k’ia té-é-le. 67320. Ditto, with handle. 68296. Small cooking pot. Wo-li-a-k‘ia-té-è-le. 68341, 68240. Ditto, for heating water. 68229, 68345. Cooking pots known as the Navajo variety. Pá-te-è-lé. 68354. Ditto, small. 68338, 68342. Ditto, very tall. 68266. Small black ware cooking pot. Wó-le-á-k’ia té-tsa-na. 68228. Ditto. ——. Ditto. 68340. Ditto. Wo-le-a-k’ia-té-tsa-na. 67442. Small cooking pot, ancient form of corrugated ware. Wó-le-a-k‘ia té-tsa-na, ní-tu-li-e. 67359. Small ornamented pot. Má-po-k’ia te-we atch-í-pätch-i-pa. 68237. Small cooking pot of black ware. Wó-li-a-kia té-shi-k’iän-na. 67415. Small water pot. Kiä´l-i-k’ia té-tsa-na thlúp-tsi-na. 67556. Small pot for sacred medicine paint, containing black pigment. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na, hé-lin-wó-po-pa. 68374. Very small cooking pot. ——. Small cooking pot, with corrugated rim. Wó-le-a-k’ia té-muí-an tsa-na. 67417. Small red salt pot, broken at rim. Má-po-k’ia té-tsa-na. 67085. Small pitcher pot for paint sizing. He-li-po-nan k‘iäl-i-k’ia, sá-mui-an tsa-na. 68360. Small salt pot. Má-po-k’ia-té-e-le. 565 68349. Small cooking pot, with protuberances at rim. Wó-li-a-k’ia sá-mui-an tsa-na. 68260. Small cooking pot. 68322. Small cooking pot, with ears. Wó-li-a-k’ia sá-mui-an tsa-na. ——. Small Navajo cooking pot. 67073. Small pot with scalloped rim, for mixing paint. Hé-lin-o-na-kia sá-tsa-na; ní-te-po-a-yä´thl-tâi-e. 68327. Small cooking pot, with ears. 68319. Wide-mouthed cooking pot. Wó-li-a-k’ia tél-ishi-k‘iá-pan-an. 66515. Small red salt pot. Má-po-kia té-tsa-na Shí-lo-a. 68253. Small cooking pot. 67524. Small paint pot, ancient. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na, í-no-to-na. 68299. Small wide-mouthed cooking pot, Wó-li-a-k’ia té-tsa-na. 68249. Small deep cooking pot. 67465. Small pot for heating water, with protuberances, and ornate winding ridges for facilitating handling. K‘iá-k’iäthl-k’ia-na-k’ia té-mu-to-pa tsa-na, nó-li-pa. 68381. Small pot with wide rim, for heating water. 67480. Small pot for heating water, with protuberances, and ornate winding ridges for facilitating handling, or removing to and from the fire. Kiá-k‘iäthl-k’ia-na-k’ia té-mu-to-pa tsa-na, nó-li-pa. 68241. Small cooking pot. Wó-li-a-k’ia té-tsa-na. 68334. Small cooking pot. 67448. Small toy cooking vessel, with ears. Í-k‘ósh-na-k’ia wó-li-a-k’ia sá-mui-an-ne. 67423. Small toy pot for heating water, with ears on either side. 67445. Small earthen pot, new, for cooking and heating water. K‘iá-k‘iäthl-k’ia-na-k’ia té-mui-a tsa-na. 67455. Ditto. 68369. Ditto. 68358. Cooking pot, large. 68252. Ditto, té-mui-an-ne. 67447. Ditto, very small. Í-k‘osh-na-k’ia té-tsa-na. 67484. Ditto, with decoration of finger prints. 67437. A small toy cooking pot. Í-k‘osh-na-k’ia, wó-li-a-k’ia sá-mui-an tsa-na. 67470. Ditto, with protuberances. Mú-to-pa. 67461. Ditto, with rim provided with small knobs. Mu-top ú-lap-nai-e. 68350, 68290. Small cooking pot, with ears; small, ordinary cooking pot. 68263. Small cooking pot. Wó-li-a-k’ia té-tsa-na. 68234. Ditto. 68269. Ditto. 68278. Ditto. 68254. Cooking pot, large. 68255. Ditto, with ears. Té-mui-an-ne. 68347. Ditto. 566 67483. Ditto, entire body of the vessel is covered with small protuberances to facilitate handling while hot. Wó-li a-a-k’ia té-mu-to-pa. 68357. Large cooking pot nsed in preparing-feasts. Wó-li-a-k’ia-té-thla-na. 68235. Small new cooking pot. Wó-li-a-kia té-chi-mo-na. 68336. Ditto, in imitation of a Navajo pot. These Navajo pots are all uniform in shape, with conical bottoms, slender bodies, and rims ornamented with relief or depressed figures. Pá-té-è-le. 68332. Ditto. ——. Ditto. 68346. Ditto. ——. Ditto, with Zuñi figure. Shí-wi-na tsí-nai-e. 68281. Ditto, very small. 68227. Cooking pot of medium size. 68344. Ditto, medium size, long body. 69869. Ditto, small and bowl shaped. ——. Ditto, with ornamentations, symbolic of war. Sä´-mu-k’ia tsí-nan ú-lüp-nai-e. ——. Kettle-shaped cooking pot. 68326. Ditto, small. ——. Ditto, with ears. ——. Ditto, with rope-like band around rim. K‘ol-ap kul-nap-nai e. 68379. Ditto, with tripod legs. Té-sa-kwi-pa. ——. Pot with ears. Té-mui an-ne. ——. Small cooking pot of corrugated ware. Í-no-to-na ní-tu-li té-tsa-na. ——. Ditto, broken. ——. Ditto, imperfect. ——. Ancient round treasure pot for suspension. Í-no-to-na thla-wo-pu-k’ia té-pi-li-an tsa-na. ——. Cooking pot of corrugated ware. Wó-li-a-k’ia té-ni-tu-li-a tsa-na. ——. Small water pot for suspension, ancient. Í-no-to-na té-k‘iä-mo-li-an tsa-na. ——. Cooking pot, Navajo variety. ——. Pot, medium size. ——. Small handled vessel for heating water. K‘ia-k‘iäthl-na-k’ia té-mui-an tsa-na. DIPPERS, LADLES, AND SPOONS. 67709, 67713, 67722, 67719, 67711, 67735. Small plain earthen eating spoons. Í-to-na-k‘ia sá-sho-k‘o tsa-na. 67736, 67733. Ditto, work of children. 67702. Small earthen eating spoons, with representation of male blackbird. Wo-tsa-na-ót-si. 67712. Ditto, with female blackbird. 567 67715. Ditto, with figure of black pig. Pí-tsi-wi-ti-k‘win ne. 67718. Ditto, with representation of shrike in center. Shó-k’iä-pïs-si tsí-nai-e. 67705. Ditto, with representation of chaparral cock. Pó-yi-tsín-ai-e. 67710. Small eating spoon, with handles, in representation of human face. Wí-ha í-to-na-k’ia sá-sho-k‘on tsa-na. 67570, 67574. Decorated soup ladle of earthenware. Wó-li-k’ia-sá-sho-k‘on tsí-na-pa. 67678. Soup ladle, plain. 67691. Ditto, of red ware. 67689. Ditto, very large, with red cloud decoration. 67676. Ditto, very large. 67125. Ditto, cup-shaped, ancient. Í-no-to-na-k’ia sá-sho-k‘on muí-ai-e. 67569. Ditto, gourd-shaped, modern. 67680. Ditto, with rattle-handle. 66909. Small bowl made from broken eating ladle. 67224. Very ancient bowl of spoon. Í-no-to-na-k’ia sá-sho-k‘on tsa-na. 67716. Small earthen eating spoon. Sá-sho-k‘on tsa-na. 67732. Small earthen eating spoon. 67564. Large earthen eating spoon, decorated. Sá-sho-k‘on thla-na, tsí-na-pa. 67690. Large earthen spoon for lifting food from a cooking pot. Wó-li-k’ia sá-sho-k‘on thla-na. 67683. Small earthen spoon. Sá-sho-k‘on tsa-na. 67717. Small eating spoon. ——. Large eating spoon of earthen ware. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-sho-k‘on thlá-na. 67731. Ditto, small. ——. Small eating spoon. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-sho-k‘on-tsa-na. ——. Ditto. 67734. Eating spoon, of unburned clay. Ák-nam-me, meaning unburned. 67726. Ditto, white glazed earthen ware. 67730. Ditto. 67727. Ditto. 67725. Ditto. 67739. Ditto, small unburnt ware. 67738. Ditto. 67723. Ditto. 67707. Ditto, large. Thlá-na. ——. Ditto, small red ware. Shí-lo-a. ——. Ditto. 67720. Ditto. 67706. Ditto. 67714. Ditto. 67701. Ditto. ——. Ditto. 568 67703. Ditto, decorated. 67721. Medium sized eating spoon of earthen ware, decorated on the inner side with the figure of a grotesque bird, with long tail-feathers, long bill curving downward, short legs, a scroll figure on its back. Á-sho-na-k’ia hé-lu-k’ia-wó-tsa-na tsín e-tâi-e = (“With the ornamental mud-hen little-bird, marked within the bottom”). 67708. Ditto, with the figure of the sacred butterfly drawn on the inner side. Pú-la-k’ia é-tâi-e. 67729. Ditto, white. 67728. Ditto, plain. 67571. Large eating spoon of earthen ware. Í-to-na-k’ia sá-sho-k‘on thla-na. 67685. Small earthen ladle, Wó-li-k’ia shó-k‘on tsa-na. This specimen is, like many in the collection, made for daily use, and hence without ornamentation. 67566. Small earthen eating ladle, Í-to-na-k’ia sá-sho-k‘on thla-na. In this case the Indian name is given in full for the kind of ladle designated, plain ware. ——. Large cooking ladle, of red earthen ware. Wó-li-k’ia sá-sho-k‘on thla-na, shí-lo-a. 67770. Cooking ladle, small, plain. 67688. Ditto, small. 67692. Ditto, large. 67684. Ditto, plain, medium size. 67563. Ditto, of red ware. ——. Small basin-shaped ladle, with handle. Á-kwi-k‘äish-na-k’ia sá-mui-an k‘ia-pan. ——. Small soup ladle, with primitive serpent design. Wó-tih-k’ia sá-sho-k‘on shí-lo-a, í-no-to-na tsí-nan wó-pe. 67572. Ditto, without decoration, of red ware. 67693. Soup ladle, medium size, plain. ——. Large earthenware ladle, decorated in center with picture of night moth. Wó-li-k’ia sá-sho-k‘on, pú-la-k’ia é-tâi-e. 67694. Earthen soup ladle. Wó-li-k’ia sá-sho-k‘on-ne. 67575. Large bowl-shaped red ware soup-ladle. Wó-li-k’ia sá-sho-k‘on shí-lo-a. 67567. Large earthen ladle, with hook decoration. Wó-li-k’ia sá-sho-k‘on thla-na, ní-tsi-kon ú-le. 67565. Ladle, small, red ware. Tsá-na, shí-lo-a. 67696. Ditto. 67562. Ditto, plain. 67560. Ditto. 67561. Ditto, in imitation of a gourd. Tóm sho-k‘on án-te-li-ah-nan-o-na. 67781. Small earthern soup ladle, of red ware. Wó-li-k’ia sá-sho-k‘on tsa-na, shí-lo-a. 569 67698. Soup ladle of white ware. ——. Ditto, white. K‘ó-ha-na. 67682. Ditto, red ware. 67573. Ditto, decorated ware. 67686. Ditto. 67695. Ditto, very large, red ware. Thlá-na, shí-lo-a. 67687. Ditto. 67697. Ditto. CONDIMENT VESSELS. 67389. Salt and pepper jar. Má-pu-k’ia té-è-le. 67356. Salt and pepper dish. Má-pu-k’ia té-wi-pa-tchi-pa. 67402. Plain brown salt pot or earthen box. Má-pu-k’ia-té-è-le. 67088. Small salt cup, with handle. Má-pu-k’ia té-mui-an-ne. ——. Large red earthen salt box or pot. Má-pu-k’ia té-shi-lo-a. ——. Small double salt and pepper earthen vessel, box-shaped, and decorated. Má-pu-k’ia té-thle-lon, tsé-na-pa. 67346. Large double salt and pepper jar. Má-pu-k’ia é-wi-pä-tchin-na. 67364. Decorated salt pot. 67392. Small box-shaped red earthen salt pot. Má-pu-k’ia té-wi-pä-tchin shí-lo-a. ——. Ditto, with figures of elks. Má-pu-k’ia te-e-le, ná-pa-no-pa. 67348. Double salt pot of red ware. Má-pu-k’ia té-wi-pä-tchi-pa shí-lo-ā. 67356. Box-shaped salt and pepper jar, decorated with antelope and deer. Má-pu-k’ia té-è-le, ná-pa-no-pa. 67353. Double salt pot of plain white ware. Má-pu-k’ia té-wi-pä-tchin k‘ó-ha-na. ——. Box-shaped salt and pepper dish, with representation of bat on one side and deer on the other. Má-pu-k’ia té-wi-pä-tchin, shá-ho-i-ta, ta top-a-k’ia é-shot-si pä´-tchi-pa. ——. Small salt pot. Má-pu-k’ia té-è-le. 67349. Small plain double salt pot. Má-pu-k’ia té-wi-pä-tchin tsa-na. 67358. Ditto, small and plain. 67352. Ditto, with handle. Mú-to-pa. 67361. Ditto, without handle. 67355. Double salt pot. Má-pu-k’ia té-wi-pä-tchin-ne. 67420, 67412. Ditto, broken. 67344. Ditto, large with handle. Thlá-na, mú-te-po-a-pa. 67376. Box salt pot in representation of a house, red ware. Má-pu-k’ia-he-sho-ta-ik-na té-è-le. 67351. Salt and pepper dish. Má-pu-k’ia té-tsa-na. 67395. Salt box of earthen. Má-pu-k’ia té-è-le. 67357. Double salt pot. Má-pu-k’ia té-wi-pä-tchin-na. 66509, 66510. Pair very ancient yeast jars of whiteware. Mo-tse-ó-pi-k’ia-na-k’ia té-tsa-na á-tchi. 570 PAINT POTS. 67403. Small connected paint pots. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na-we, í-pä-tchi-pa. ——. Small paint pot. Hé-li-pu-k’ia té-tsa-na. 67450. Paint jar. Hé-li-pu-k’ia té-è-le. 67453. Corrugated paint jar. Ní-tu-li hé-li-po-k’ia, té-tsa-na. 67441. Small scalloped rim paint jar. Hé-lï-po-k’ia té-tsa-na pó-tchi-athl-yel-la. 67462. Small paint jar with protuberances. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na mú-to-pa. 68435. Small paint jar with protuberances. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na mú-to-pa. 66527. Small paint pot. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na. 67074. Small paint pot. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na. 67365. Small paint bowls, joined. Hé-li-po-k’ia sal-atch í-pa-tchi-pá. 67493. Small paint pot, with sacred terraces and emblems of summer. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na á-wi-thlui-a-pá. 67432. Small red ware paint pot, with ears for suspension. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na mui-a pí-k‘ia-a-k’ia. ——. Paint jar. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-è-le. ——. Ollas. 67558. Vase, in representation of knit moccasin, used as a toy. Wé-po-tcha té-tsa-na í-k‘osh-na-k’ia. ——. Small connected paint pots. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na í-pä-tchi-pa. 66481. Small paint pot. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na má-pa-na-pa. 67520. Small black paint pot. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na, k’wín-na. ——. Small suspensory paint pot, used in the decoration of the paraphernalia of the God of War—A-hai-iú-ta—in times of peace. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na pí-k‘ai-a-pa, Ó-lo-i-k’ia an´-o-na. ——. Paint pot of black ware. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-kwin-na. 67535. Small toy paint pot. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na í-k‘osh-na-kia. 67413. Small earthen paint box. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-thle-lon-ne. 67533, 67497. Small paint pots. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na. 67507. Small broken paint cup, plain. Hé-li-po-k’ia te-tsa-na pó-tcha. 67381. Small pair of connected paint pots. He-li-po-k’ia té-wi-pä-tchin tsa-na. 67522, 67531. Parts of connected paint pots. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na í-pä-tchi, pá-tchih-k’ia-no-na. 67394. Small connected pair of paint pots, old. Í-no-to-na hé-li-po-kia té-wi-pä-tchin tsa-na. 67375. Small connected paint pots. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-wi-pa-tchin. ——. Small earthenware vase for white paint in form of moccasin. He-k‘ä-tchu té-we kwin-ne. ——. Plain yellow earthen paint bowl, containing paint-sizing. Ná-hel-é-ton sá-thlup-tsi-na. 571 ——. Small earthen receptacle for the sizing of colors used in decorating water jars. Té-tsi-na-k’ia hé-lin o-na-k’ia te-we, ná-hel-é-ton-na-pa. 67393. Small double paint pot of red ware. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-wi-pä-tchin, shi-lo-a tsá-na. 67400. Small four lobed and handled paint vessel. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-wi-pä-tchi-pa tsa-na, ní-te-po-a, aí-yäthl ton. 67396. Small double paint pot. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-wi-pä-tchin tsa-na. 67477. Small decorated paint pot with spinous protuberances to facilitate handling. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-mui-a-pa. ——. Small ancient paint pot with ears. Í-no-to-na hé-li-po-k’ia té-mui-an-ne. 68274. Small sizing pot for paint. Ná-hel-e-ton sá-tsa-na. 67387. Small connected paint pots. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na, í-pa-tchin-ne. 67372. Primitive earthenware paint box with six compartments, for decoration in sacred dance. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-wi-pä-tchi-we-tsá-na. 67374. Small earthen paint box. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-thle-lon tsa-na. 67463. Small paint pot with spinous protuberances to facilitate handling. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na, muí-a-pa. 67366. Small double paint dish. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-wi-pätch-in-ne. 67468, 67466, 67467. Three small paint pots with spinous protuberances to facilitate handling. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na-we, á-mui-a-pa. 67416. Small paint jar broken from handle. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na. ——. Small paint pot with protuberances representing spines of cactus fruit and made to facilitate handling. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-mu-to-pa, tu-we án-te-li-ah-na yá-nai-e. 67474. Small paint pot with band of protuberances or knobs. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na mú-to pi-lan-ú-lap-nai-e. 67529. Small paint pot broken from handle. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na. 67424. Small paint pot in form of the native wild gourd. Hé-li-po-k’ia mó-thlâ-o-na té-tsa-na. ——. Small paint pot of black ware. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na-k‘wín-ne. 67472. Small plain paint pot with protuberances. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na. 67492. Ditto, with sacred terraces represented. Á-wi-thlui-a-po-na. 67559. Ditto, in form of moccasin. Wé-po-tcha. 67510. Small paint pots. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-wi-pä tchi-k’ia tsa-na. 67384, 67360, 67362, 67368. Small double paint pots. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-wi-pä-tchin tsa-na. 67513, 67499. Small paint jars or pots. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na. 67399. Small imitation paint pot, with compartments. Hé-li-po-k’ia án-te-li-ah-na té-wi-pä-tchin tsa-na. 67487. Small terraced paint pots. Hé-li-po-k’ia á-wi-thlui-a-po-na té-tsa-na. 66517. Small paint jar. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na. 572 67429, 67464. Small paint jars, covered with protuberances. 67382. Small paint pot. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-wi-pä-tchin-ne. ——. Paint pot, broken. 67504, 67369, 67371. Ditto, larger, broken. ——. Toy paint pot in form of moccasin, Í-k‘osh-na-k’ia wé-kwi-po-tcha-te hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na. ——. Ditto, in form of a pair of moccasins with figures of two parrots. Hé-li-po-k’ia wé-po-tchin-tsa-na, pí-tchi atch poa yä´thl tâi-e. ——. Crude paint jar with four compartments. 67438. Small corrugated paint jar. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na. 67489. Small paint jar with terraced ears for suspension. Hé-li-po-k’ia-tél a-wi-thlui-a-pa. 67444. Small scalloped rim paint pot. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na pó-tchi-äthl-yel-ai-e. 67406. Small connected paint cups. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na-we í-pä-tchi-pa. 67515. Small paint cup. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na. 67518. Part of double paint pot. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na. 67523. Small paint pot showing method of joining. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na, í-pa-tchi-na-k’ia un´-ah-nai-e. 67500. Small ancient paint pot with ears. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-mui-an, í-no-to-na. 67414. Small paint pot divided into compartments for different pigments. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na, hé-te-kwi ú-li-pa. 67457. Small paint jars furnished with protuberances to facilitate handling. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-mui-a-pa tsa-na. 67528. Small paint pot of corrugated ware. Hé-li-po-k’ia ní-tu-li té-tsa-na. 67398. Parts of double broken paint pot. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-wi-pä-tchin tsa-na. 67404. Paint pot, with four compartments for the paints of the fire gods. Shú-la-wït-si hé-li-nai-é. 67391. Ditto, double. 66519. Small decorated paint pot of yellow ware. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na. 67419, 67428. Ditto, plain red. Shí-lo-a. 67421, 67426. Ditto, with ears. Mú-to-pa. 67498. Small deep paint dish in form of Navajo cooking pot. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na, Pá-tel ík-na. 67422, 67481. Ditto, with bear-shaped handle. Áing-shi má-tâi-e. 68368. Ditto, plain with sacred black paint. Há-k’win hé-li-pon-ne. 67521, 67519. Ditto, plain, crude. 66525. Small paint pot of corrugated ware. Í-no-to-na ní-tu-li té-tsa-na. 67451. Paint pot, very small. 67427. Small toy cooking pot. Í-k‘osh-na-k’ia wó-li-a-k’ia té-tsa-na. 67537. Toy cooking pot, very small. 573 67479, 67443. Small paint pots with protuberances. Hé-li-po-k’ia-té-mui-an-tsa-na. 67503, 67506. Ditto, plain. 67409, 67408, 67379, 67526, 67509. Small plain paint pots. Hé-li-po-k’ia-té-tsa-na-we. 68287. Small ancient paint pot. Í-no-to-na hé-li-po-k’ia-té-tsa-na. 67407. Small four-lobed paint pot with figure of parrot. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-wi-pä-tchin tsa-na, Pí-tchi po-a-yäthl tâi-e. 67478. Ditto, plain. 67495. Ditto, plain, pot shaped, flat bottomed. 67397. Ditto, toy. Í-k‘osh-na-k’ia. 67502. Paint pots used in decorating sacred plume sticks, with ears for suspension. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na, pí-k’ia-a-pa. 68375, 67508, 67505, 67511. Ditto, in form of small cooking pot. 67501, 67494, 67530, 67512, 67490. Small paint pots. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-we-á-tsa-na. 67388, 67363. Ditto, double. 67525. Ditto, double, broken. 67554. Small paint pot in form of moccasin. He-li-po-k’ia wé-po-tcha té-è-le. 67315. Small squash shaped paint pot, ancient. Í-no-to-na hé-li-po-k’ia-té-mu-k‘iä-mo-pa. 66478, 66524, 66487, 66488. Small sacred paint pots. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na. (Distinguished from ordinary variety by decoration.) 67354, 67350, 67405. Double salt pots. Má-pu-k’ia té-wi-pä-tchin-ne. 67418. Ditto, broken. 67380. Ditto, box shaped. 67377. Salt box, single. Má-pu-k’ia té-thle-lon-ne. 68343. Small water pot for medicine, teas, &c. K‘iá-pa-ti-k’ia té-tom-tsa-na. 67473. Small sacred paint vessel with protuberances and decorated with frog figure. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na mú-to-pa, tá-k‘ia tsí-na-pa. 67431, 67454. Ditto, ordinary. 67434. Ditto, ancient, from ruins of Tâ´-ia or Las Nutrias. 67756. Ancient vessel of earthenware in representation of frog, for suspension. Í-no-to-na k‘iá-me-he-tâ, tá-k‘ia an´-te-li-ah-nai-e. PAINT JARS. 67430. Crude paint jars covered with protuberances to facilitate handling. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na mú-to-pa. 67471. Ditto, small. 67436. Ditto, with horse figure handle. 67390, 67370. Double box shaped paint jars. Hé-li-po-k’ia té-wi-pä-tchin-ne. 67401. Paint jars, with four compartments. 574 67440. Small corrugated paint bottle. Ní-tu-li hé-li-po-k’ia té-tsa-na. 67552. Milk vase, in representation of knit moccasin. Á-kwi-k‘iäsh-na-k’ia wé-kwi po-tcha té-mui-a tsa-na. 67551. Ditto, small, representing buckskin moccasin. 67410, 67402, 67409, 67408. Small crucibles of native manufacture for reducing silver and copper in the manufacture of ornaments. Hé-k‘ia o-na-k’ia té-tsa-na-we. EFFIGIES AND FIGURES. 67783. Figure in earthenware of the “Grand Buck Antelope.” Má-wo-tsi-thla-na mé-he-tâ. 67775. Figure in earthenware of sitting white bear bearing young. Aing-shï-kó-ha-na, mó-to-ok-te í-me chá-se-tâi-e. 67553. Small earthen figure of moccasin, used as a toy. Wé-po-tchi-ne. 67751. Small plain figure of owl, for sacred water. Mú-hu-kwe mé-he-tâ tsa-na. 67763. Ditto. ——. Small earthen figure of barn fowl. Thlá-po-po-k‘é-a-mé-he-tâ. 67743. Small figure of an owl. Mú-hu-kwe tsa-na mé-he-tâ. ——. Representation of the totemic chaparrel cock or road-runner. Pó-yi k‘win mé-he-tâ tsa-na. 67741. Small figure of an owl. Mú-hu-kwi mé-he-tâ tsa-na. ——. Canteen or vase in form of an owl, for sacred water. Mú-hu-kwe mé-he-ton-ne. 67749. Small, owl-shaped sacred jar. ——. Large doll in representation of the Hé-me-shi-kwe dance. Hé-me-shi-kwe wí-ha. ——. Small, in representation of the black dance or Tchá-kwe-na, wí-ha. ——. Doll in representation of the last Autumn dance. 67740. Figure of decoy for antelope, used in ceremonials. Má-a-we saí-o-sho-kwïn án-te-li-ah-no-na. ——. Caricature of a Mexican mounted on a buck goat. Tchí-wa-tu-ót-si, Tsí-po-lo-a ím-mäthl-tâi-e. 67546. Small figure of owl, ancient. Í-no-to-na mú-hu-kwé mé-he-tâ tsa-na. 67815. Mold for the large cooking pots, made from a bread bowl. Wó-li-a-k’ia te-thla-na á-pa-lin-ne. 67075. Small mold for vase of small cooking vessels. Wó-li-a-k’ia té-tsa-na á-pa-lin-ne. 69317. Small doll made in imitation of the Moqui sacred dance. Á-mu-kwe a-wen wí-ha án-te-li-ah-nai-e. 67283. Broken Mó-tse-nï-k’ia sá-a-le. 67557. Small pair of toy earthen moccasins. Wé-po-tche tsan-atch í-k‘osh-na-kia. 66688. Mold for the base of large cooking jars or pots. Wó-li-a-k’ia-téw-a-o-na-k’ia á-pal-lin-ne. 575 69392. Doll for child, made in representation of the K‘iá-thlan-o-na or Great water dancer. K‘iá-thlan-o-na wí-ha tsa-na. 69395. Small wooden dolls in representation of the sacred dance of “Thlí-tchi-he.” 69380. Small toy or doll kilt of the sacred dance known as Sá-la-mo-pi-a or the sacred carrier of the bone rattle. I-k‘osh-na-kia Sá-la-mo-pia wí-h‘an pí-thlan-tsa-na. 69651. Small sacred kilt for the kâ-kâ dance. Kâ-kâ a-wen pí-thlan tsin-ä´thl-yel-ai-e. 69324. Small doll in representation of the black dance, or Tchá-kwe-na wí-ha. 69323. Doll in representation of the Hé-ma-shi-kwe or last, sacred dance of autumn. Hé-ma-shi-kwe wí-ha. 69674. Large doll in representation of the Hé-me-shi-kwe dance. Hé-me-shi-kwe wí-ha.


Type:Science
👁 :
COLLECTIONS FROM ZUÑI, NEW MEXICO. Author: James Stevenson
Catagory:Reading
Author:
Posted Date:11/04/2024
Posted By:utopia online

ARTICLES OF STONE. AXES. 65890. Stone axe, small, double-grooved. O-la k‘í-le, kwïl á-kwi-ai-e. 65891, 65892, 65893, 65894, 65895, 65896, 65897, 65898. Ditto, single-grooved. 65868, 65855. Ditto, large. 65854. Ditto, large and broad. 65876. Ditto, very broad. 65869. Ditto, very large, and showing use as pecking-stone. 65856, 65870, 65877, 65857, 65871, 65858, 65878, 65879. Ditto, large. 65872. Ditto, very thin-bladed. 65859. Ditto, flat. 65860, 65880. Ditto, showing use as maul. 65861. Ditto, double-grooved. Kwil á-kwi-ai-e. 65862. Ditto, double-grooved, handsomely finished. 66045. Ditto, double-grooved, handsomely finished. K‘í k‘iäthl-thlâ-nai-e. 66882, 65874. Very large ungrooved ancient stone axes or celts. O-la-k‘í-thlana, kwa-ak´-wam-me. 65853, 65851. Axe, grooved and highly finished. O-la k‘í k‘iäth-thlâ-na yá-nï-shi. 65852. Ditto, very large. 65883, 65884, 65885, 65886, 65911, 65912, 65899, 65863, 65864, 65900, 65887, 65901, 65902, 65903, 65875, 65865, 65904, 65905, 65906, 65907, 65908, 65866, 65909, 65910, 65889. Ditto, very crude. No. 65886 is distinguished by raised square at butt to facilitate hafting. Ní-pu-li-e. 65867. Ditto, made in imitation, for barter. 66306. Ditto, unfinished. O-la k‘íl á-a-le. 65913. Ditto, small. 65922, 65923, 65921, 65914, 65919, 65917, 65924, 65925, 65920, 65915, 65916. Stone axes with handles, some made in imitation, others preserved as heir-looms from ancient times. O-la k‘í-thlä-shi-we. 65918. Small, grooved, stone axe. O-la k‘í tsa-na. METATES. 66324. Metate for reducing coarse corn-meal to flour. Ó-tsa-k‘ia-na-kia-á-k‘e. 66320, 66313. Ditto, for grinding paint for decorating pottery. Té-tsi-na-k’ia he-lin ón-a-k’ia. 522 66316, 66318, 66319, 26317. Ditto, for reducing cracked corn to meal. Tchú-ok-na-k’ia á-k‘i. 66325. Ditto, a coarse, unfinished metate. A-k‘e, kwa-yá nam-o-na. 66312. Ditto, ancient, very rude. Í-no-to-na á-k‘e. 66311. Modern paint metate. He-lin ó-na-kia. 66322, 66315, 66321, 66314 Modern metates for reducing corn and other cereals. Ok-na-k‘ia á-k‘e-we. MORTARS. 1935. Mortar made of a concretion. Mu-to-pa al´-a-k‘e. 1964. Ditto, made from muller. 1966. Ditto, small. Tú-lin-ne. 2119. Ditto, of fine-grained stone, used as a paint-mill for preparing sacred decoration colors. Tethl-na hé-lin o-na-kia á-shok-ton-ne. 2141, 2142, 2144. Ditto, very small. Á-tsa-na. 1961. Ditto, round. K‘iä-mo-li-na. 66196, 66233. Rude paint mortars. He-lin on-a kia á-shok-to á-tsa-na. 66203. Ditto, chipped. Sho-k‘wïs-na-k’ia. 66166, 66180. Ditto, pecked. Tok´-nai-e. 66175. Ditto, ground. 66197. Ditto, large, worn and ground. Tén-nai-e. 66226. Ditto, square and handsomely polished. Nó-k‘iäthl-o-na. 66204. Ditto, split. Shó-k‘wish-nai-e. 66178. Ditto, pecked, small. 66158, 66245, 66172. Ditto, pecked, slag. Á-k‘win. 66154. Ditto, small, pecked. 66198. Ditto, with round depression, ground. Pi-tsu-li-a wá shokt-ai-e. 66168. Ditto, square, pecked. 66228. Ditto, with groove around the edge. I´-tu-thlan-ah-nai-e. 66205, 66227, 66131, 66132. Ditto, small, pecked, and ground. 66111, 66206. Ditto, cup-shaped. A´-shok-ton-ak´-tsa-na. 66207. Ditto, with elongated cavity. A-k‘i täs´h-sha-na. 66135. Ditto, pecked and ground. 66251. Ditto or trough of the malpais for grinding chili and preparing a sauce called K‘iäthl-k‘o-se = K‘ol hé-a-kia á-shok-ton-ne. 66234. Ditto, crude. 66159. Ditto, small. 66246. Ditto, large and thick. 66244. Ditto, well pecked. 66236, 66190. Ditto, much worn. 66235. Ditto. Rectangular. 66157. Ditto, very small. 66177, 66250. Ditto, of finished sandstone. 66186. Ditto, very deep. 66252. Ditto, very large. 66208. Grinding-stone for colors used in decoration of vessels, in form of mortar. Te´ tsi-na-k‘ia á-shok-ton-ne. 523 66254. Ditto, with double concavity for red and black colors. Thlup-tsi-na k‘win í-pä-tchi-e. 66160, 66163. Ditto or paint-mill for preparing colors for decoration of the sacred dances. Kâ-kâ a-wa he-lin o-na-kia á-shok-ton-ne. 66179. Ditto, long, pecked. 66184, 66165, 66187, 66188. Ditto, finished by pecking. 66219, 66229. Ditto, square. 66191, 66192. Ditto, pecked and chipped. 66176. Ditto, beautifully finished, long. 66171. Ditto, rectangular, beautifully finished, and long. 66209. Ditto, polished irregularly, rectangular. 66170. Ditto, handsomely finished by pecking and grinding. 66121. Ditto, crude, small. 66213, 66153. Ditto, made of a concretion. Mu-to-pa ál-a-k‘i. 66115, 66220, 66127. Ditto, slag. 66128, 66202, 66182. Ditto, round. 66181. Ditto, round and thick. K‘iä´-mo-li-a. 66193. Ditto, round. 66194. Ditto, rude. 66130, 66162, 66122, 66222. Ditto, hammer-stone form. 66114. Ditto, polished. 65939, 66230, 66125. Ditto, rectangular. 66210, 66231, 66195, 66212. Ditto, finished by grinding. 66121, 66152. Ditto, finished. 66189, 66211, 66185. Ditto, round. K‘iä´-mo-li-a. 66232. Ditto, with small muller. Tu-lin í-hi-kia. 66248, 66214. Paint mortars for reducing the paint for masks and pottery. He-lin ó-na-k‘ia á-shok-to-we. 66237, 66215, 66240, 66241, 66238, 66243, 66242. Mortar, of slag, used in making the sauce described above, and reducing chili. K‘iäthl-k‘o-se k‘iä-na-kia á-shok-ton-ne. 66201. Ditto, for children. Á-tsan á-wa. 66223. Ditto, for reducing paint used in decorating pottery. Na´-he-lin o-na-kia a´-shok-ton-ne. 66216. Ditto, square. 66183. Ditto, very deep and finished by pecking. 66249, 66253. Ditto, shallow. 66255. Ditto, unfinished. 66161. Ditto, very rude and small. 66224. Ditto, larger. 66225. Ditto, with small round concavity; hammer-stone form. 66137, 66155, 56139, 66140, 66141, 66174, 66164, 66167, 66144, 66120, 66123, 66147, 66138, 66173, 66145, 66117, 66151, 66143, 66136, 66149. Paint-mills of fine-grained stone for preparing sacred decoration colors. Tethl-na he-lin o-na-kia á-shok to-we. 524 66113, 66129, 66112, 66148, 66118, 66142, 66146, 66119. Ditto, very small. Á-tsa-na. 66116. Ditto, for common uses. Kwam-as-tin-ák’ia-ni. 66247. Ditto or unfinished mortar of the malpais for grinding chili and other ingredients for sauce. K‘ol ók-na-k’ia á-shok-ton-ne. 66134, 66231, 66124, 66133. Ditto, finished by pecking. MULLERS. 65946. Muller made from a small piece of hematite, used as source at once and muller of pottery paint. Té-tsi-na-kia á-k‘win á-a-le. 66007. Ditto, slag, originally a maul. 66036. Ditto, of true form, originally a maul. Tchïsh-na-k‘ia á-pi-tsu-li-a. 66015. Ditto, originally a maul. 66037. Ditto, of true form. 66200. Ditto, for grinding sauce of onion, chili, coriander, salt, and water. K‘ol hé-a-k‘ia á-mu-luk-ton-ne. 66043. Ditto, handsomely finished in the form of a pestle. 66009. Ditto, regular form. 66156. Ditto, hammer-stone form. 66042. Ditto, crusher form. 65984. Ditto, for polishing, &c. Á-k‘iä-thlâ-k‘iä-na-k’ia á-a-le. 66091, 66029, 66030, 66038, 66031, 66039, 65987, 65986, 65976, 65977, 65978, 65979, 65980. Ditto, used for preparing sauce. 66071, 66085, 66014, 66103, 66025, 66086, 66006, 66012, 66001, 66011, 66019, 66023, 66041, 66025, 66008, 66016, 66017, 66021, 67005, 66070, 66004. Ditto, mauls and mullers of slag for grinding chili and other ingredients of the sauce known as kiä´thl-k‘o-se. Hé-a-kia á-mu-lok-to-we. 66088. Ditto, granite. 66024. Ditto, of granite, for preparing ingredients to form paste for pottery. Sa-to ók-na-k’ia-na-kia á-k‘iä-mo-li-an-ne. 66102, 66094, 66101, 66071, 66089, 66013, 66096, 66107, 66090, 66087, 66091, 66106, 66003, 66092, 66095, 65873. Mullers, grooved maul form. Ok´-na-k’ia o-la k‘i kiä-mo li-a-we. 65881. Ditto, round. 66054. Ditto, for reducing paint used in pottery decoration, and for polishing. K‘iä´-thlâ-na-k’ia á-a-le. 66027. Ditto, in the form of a paint mortar. He-lin on-ak’ia á-tsa-na, kwïl-li-mük-te hé-k‘o-pa. 66150. Ditto, with rounded bottom, enlarged middle and small concavity on apex. He-k‘o yä´thl-tâi-e. 66109, 65952. Ditto, regular form. 65953, 65954, 65955, 65981, 65956, 65957, 65958, 65991, 65959, 65960, 65961, 65962, 65963. Small paint stones or mullers. He-lin o-na-kia á-k‘iä-mo-li-a-we. 525 66032, 66033, 66035, 66034, 65994, 66026, 65995, 66049, 65996. Mullers for polishing or smoothing cooking stones, &c. Á-k‘iä-thlâ-k’ia na-k’ia-á-we (plu.) 66256, 66257, 66276, 66285, 66266, 62258, 66273, 66263, 66264, 66274, 66286, 66271, 66272, 66259, 66261, 66270, 66267, 66293, 66288, 66287, 66290, 66289, 66291. Ditto, or rubbing-stones, used in connection with fine metals for grinding corn and meal. Tchú-ok-na-k’ia yäl-li-we. 62298. Ditto, very large. 66275. Ditto, broken. 66269, 66294, 64299, 66300. Ditto, very broad and flat. Tchú-ok-na-k’ia. Yal-li k‘iá-pa-we. 66297, 66295, 66301, 66303, 66304, 66302, 67305. Ditto, ancient. I-no-to-na-a-wa yä´l-li-we. 66284. Ditto, modern, for making coarse meal. 66307. Ditto, large, for grinding chili. K‘iä´thl-he-a-kia á-thla-na. 66296. Ditto, very broad, flat, and ancient, for grinding flour. I-no-te-kwe a-wen yä´l-lin-ne. 1982. Muller for reducing pottery colors. 1986. Ditto, maul form. 2154, 2163. Mauls and mullers of slag for grinding chili and other ingredients of the sauce known as kiäthl-k‘o-se = Kiä´thl-he-a-kia á-mu-luk-ton-ne. 2159, 2168, 2171, 2173. Small paint stones or mullers. He-lin o-na-k’ia a-k‘iä-mo-li-a-we. 2167. Muller, very large. 2267. Ditto, or rubbing-stone, used in connection with fine metates for for grinding corn meal. Tchú-ok-na-kia yäl-lin-ne. 2275. Ditto, unfinished. Kwa-yá-nam-o-na. 2338. Small chili muller. 2356. Polishing muller. 1998. Muller, used for preparing sauce. see caption Plate XL. POLISHING POTTERY. MISCELLANEOUS OBJECTS. 65940, 65941. Small stones used in polishing pottery. Té-k‘iå thlâ-k’ia-na-kia á-we. 65998, 65942. Polishing stones used for grinding sacred paint. 65988, 65998, 65943, 65974, 63944, 66010. Ditto, large. 65947, 65948, 65985. Small stones used in polishing pottery. Te-kia-thlâ-kia-na-kia-á-we. 65967, 65946, 65975, 65997, 65973, 65950, 65981, 65965, 65966, 65951. Small stones used in polishing unburned vessels. Té-k‘ia-pi na-k‘iä-thlâ-k’ia-na-k‘ia á-we. 65983. Large stone for polishing baking slabs. Á-k‘iä-thlâ-k’ia-na-k‘ia á-a-le. 65982, 66000. Polishers. K‘iä´-thlâ-na-k’ia a-we. 526 65964. Small polishing stone. A´-k‘iä-thlâ-kia-na-k’ia á-tsa-na. 65993. Ditto, larger. 66048, 66047. Ditto, flat. 66050. Ditto, large, flat. 65972. Small polisher for glazing and smoothing pottery. Té-k‘iä-thlâ-kia-na-k’ia á-tsa-na, for use of which see pl. xl. 66053, 65969. Ditto, rude. 65949. Small stone used in polishing unburned vessels. Te´-k‘ia-pi-na k‘iä-thlâ-k’ia-na-k’ia-á-a-le. 66014, 66028, 66108, 66020. Pecking stones. Á-tok-na-k’ia a´-we. 66067, 66066, 66065. Ornamented ancient pestles. I-no-to-na a-wa k‘ú-lu-lu-na-kia á-tesh-kwi-we. 66218. Ornamented small paint pestle. Hé-a-k’ia tú-lin-ne. 66260, 66277, 66278, 66279, 66268, 66280, 66265, 66281, 66282, 66283. Rubbing stones used with a coarse metate for shucking and cracking corn. Tchú-thlät-sa-k’ia-na-k’ia yäl´-li-we. 65936. Ancient stone knife used in the ceremonial dance called the Hom´-ah-tchi, or war dance of the Kâ-kâ. Hom-ah-tchi a-wen ä-tchi-en-ne. 65934, 65933, 66310, 65937, 65931, 65932. Ancient war knives preserved for modern ceremonials. 3 Of the variety known as the “Há-mi-li-li tí-mush,” or petrified wood-lance (archaic). 3 “Ti-mush shí-k‘ia-na,” or the black lance. 65929. Ditto, ground. 65930. Ancient rude stone knife. Ti-mush á-tchi-ën tsa-na. 66056. Thunder ball or stone used in the sacred ceremonial game of the priests. Ku-lu-lu-na-k’ia á-a-le. 66064, 66063, 66060, 66058. Small stone balls used in the sacred game of the Hidden ball. Í-än-k‘o-lo ú-li-we. 66057. Small thunder ball used in the ceremonial game of the Hidden ball. Ku-lu-lu-na-k’ia á-k‘iä-mo-li-a tsa-na. 66061, 66059. Thunder ball, plain, small. 66055. Ditto, large, used as a weight in the dye-pot. 65970. Ditto, large, rude, or irregular. 66323, 66326, 66327. Stones for baking tortillas and corn griddle-cakes. Hé-pä-tchish-na-kia a´-we. 66328. Ditto, for baking guyave or paper-bread. Hel´-äsh-na-k’ia a-a-le. 66329. Ditto, small. 66044. Paint stone used as weight in dyeing. Thli-an-a-kia pá-u-li-k’ia á-a-le. 66068, 65928. Stones used as weights in the dye-pot. Thli-an á-k‘ia pa wo-lu-k’ia á-we. 66079, 66099, 66098, 66100, 66076, 66078. Sacred, ancient idol stones, concretions. A-thlä-shi á-yäl-up-na-we. 527 66080. Ancient stone idol found near the celebrated ruins in Eastern Tusayan, known as Á-wat-ú-ï, or Tala-ho-g’an. I-no-to-na-á tahlä-shi, hâ-i án-te-li-ah-nai-e. 66074, 66075, 66073. Small, disc-shaped stone quoits. Tan-ka-la-k’ia-na-k’ia á-we. 66052. Ditto, large. 65972. Stone for producing black paint of pottery, hematite. Té-tsi-na-k‘ia á-k‘win-ne. 66069. “Ancient stone.” Á-thlä-shi. 66051, 66084. Tufas for tanning skins. Á-sho-a á-we. 69270. Concretion of sacred significance, or “old stone.” Á-thlä-shi. 65935. Flat stone used as cover to cooking pot. Wo-le-a á-k‘os-kwi-k’ia. 66308, 66309, Pair of arrow-shaft raspers or grinders of sandstone. Shó tchish-ni-k’ia á-wi-pä-tchin-ne. 66081, 66082, 66083. Mauls for pounding raw-hide. Í-k‘iäthl-thli tâk-na-kia á-we. 2190. Very fine polishing stone for finishing baking-stones. Wa-lo-loa-k‘ia-na-k’ia á-mu-luk-ton-ne. 2191. Ditto, flat. 2314. Small polishing stone. K‘iä-thlâ-k’ia-na-k’ia á-a-le. 2315. Small paint pestle. Hé-a-kia tú-lin-ne. 2350. Stone axe with handle. O-la k‘í thla-shi. 2321. Thunder ball with sacred head inlaid to secure good fortune, ancient. K‘u-lu-lu-na-kia ha-lo-a-ti-na thle-a-k’ia-ni á-k‘iä-mo-li-an-ne, í-no-to-na. 2841. Concretion of sacred significance or “old stone.” Á-thlä-shi. 2842. Ditto, red. Shí-lo-a. 2843. Ditto, black. Shí-k‘ia-na. 1981. Knob of mineral (bitumen) used in polishing the inside of parching vessels, or glazing black during great heat. Wo-li-a-k‘ia-té-thle-mon an té-hu-lin wó-pa-thlai-a-k‘ia hé k‘wi-nan-né. 2845. Small thunder stone ball used in the ceremonial game of Hidden ball. K‘ú-lu-lu-na-kia ál-u-lin-ne. 2844. The “house of the hornets of creation”. Tchïm-mï-k‘ia-na-kia ó-hap k‘iá-kwi-we. 2838. Lumps of yellow paint. Hé thlup-tsi-kwa mú-we (for pottery). HUNTING AND WAR AMULETS Composed of arrow points, stone knives, and carvings to represent the great animals of prey—we-ma-we—&c. These specimens have been retained by the Bureau of Ethnology for purposes of study, and consequently have no National Museum numbers. The numbers given them here pertain to the field catalogue. 1. Large stone figure of mountain lion, distinguished by a long tail curved lengthwise over the back; observe blood on black coating and turquoise eyes. Hâk-ti-täsh-a-na wém-me. Hunter God of the North. 528 2. Amulet, of white spar, with arrow head “above heart.” Nicely carved, with ears and with small pieces of turquoise inserted for eyes; designated by Mr. Cushing as Prey God of the Hunt. Sä-ni-a-k‘ia-kwe a-wen hâk-ti-täsh-a-na wém-me. 3. Ditto, of sandstone, without inlaid eyes. Stone arrow-head attached on right side. 4. Ditto, of alabaster, without flint. 5. Ditto, with flint at back, and showing traces of blood. 6. Ditto, of alabaster; very small. 7. Ditto, with traces of carbonate of copper, or the sacred blue medicine stone of the Zuñis. 8. Ditto, of banded spar, used in the ceremonial of paint-making in connection with the prayers for increase of animals, Í-sho-maia-k‘ia. 9. Ditto, with arrow-point, coral (á-la-ho), white, shell disk (k‘o-hakwa) and abalone (sho-to-thlí än) ornaments bound about the region of the heart. 10. Representation of the great Hunting God of the West, the Coyote, in plain alabaster. 11. Ditto, in sandstone, inlaid with patches of green stone. 12. Ditto, in fine brown sandstone, inlaid with turquoise eyes. 13. Ditto, in alabaster. 14. Ditto, in alabaster, with flint chip at back. 15. Ditto, showing blood coating. 16. Ditto, in alabaster. 17. Ditto, ditto (small). 18. Ditto, in semi-translucent spar. 19. Ditto, in alabaster (small). 20. Ditto, in carbonate of copper. 20a. Ditto, ditto. 20b. Ditto, in banded spar, and used as No. 8. 21. Representation in pottery, with conventional decoration, of the Great Hunting God of the South, the Wild Cat, or Te-pi-wém. Very ancient. 22, 23, 24. Ditto, of soft chalky substance, short black tail and black ear-tips. 25. Ditto, in yellowish soft stone. 26, 27. Ditto, in alabaster (small). 28. Ditto, ditto (with hole for suspension). 29. Ditto, ditto (without hole). 30. Ditto, ditto (with flint chip at back). 31. Ditto, ditto (with arrow at side). 32, 33. Ditto, ditto (with flint chip). 34. Ditto, ditto (with white bead necklace and arrow point at back). 35. Ditto, with arrow point and carbonate of copper at back. 529 36. Representation of Great Hunting God of the South, the Wild Cat, fine soft sandstone, showing ornaments and arrow point and traces of blood, and inclosed in buckskin bag worn in the chase. 37. Ditto, in alabaster, very large, showing black snout, feet, tail, and ears. 38. Ditto, in dark sandstone, very large, with white shell, coral, and arrow point bound to back and sides. 39. Ditto, with arrow, arrow-point, and carbonate of copper at back. 40. Ditto, in sandstone, plain. 41. Ditto, ditto, eyes inlaid with turquoise. 42. Ditto, with white shell and arrow-point bound to side. 43. Wolf Fetich of the Chase, or Hunter God of the East, plain sandstone. 44. Ditto, alabaster, plain. 45. Ditto (ditto), small. 46, 47. Ditto, ditto, with arrow flake. 48. Ditto, of sacred bluestone. 49. ——. 50. Ditto, of banded spar, and used as remarked under No. 8. 51. Ditto, ditto. 52. Concretion representing the Great Hunting God of the lower regions; the Mole (K‘iä-lu-tsi-wém), with white shell disks bound about neck and arrow point to the back. 53. Ditto, very small. 54. Piece of slag, slightly ground, to represent the Great Prey God of the upper regions, the Eagle, or K‘ia-k’ial-i wém. 55. Great pray God, in yellow rock material, rudely shaped and provided with necklace of arrow-point, white shell beads, &c. 56. Ditto, very rude, of sandstone, without appurtenances. 57. Ditto, conventionally carved, with aperture at back for suspension; fine-grained red stone. 58. Ditto, in blood-stained alabaster, inlaid at back, breast, and eyes with turquoise. 59. Ditto, in alabaster, with carbonate of copper inlaid as eyes, and arrow-point placed at back. 60. Ditto, carved quite elaborately. 61. Ditto (very small). 62. Ditto, in sandstone, very small, and with necklace. 63. Ditto, very elaborately carved, and represented sitting on the ancient knife used in war expeditions to insure successful elusion of enemies. 64. Representing a quadruped with straight tail, ears, mouth, and feet tipped with black; turquoise eyes set in. 65. Wild-cat. 66. Ditto. 530 67. Coyote. 68. Ditto. 69. Represents an animal with short tail, large arrow-head attached to right side; carved from hard gypsum. 70. Small quadruped, carved from gypsum, short tail, ears projecting forward. 71. Wild-cat. 72. Ditto, in alabaster. 73. Representing an animal with a long body, with a small shell ornament attached to its back; carved from gray soapstone. 74. Wolf-cat. 75. Long-bodied animal, with shell ornament attached to back. 76. Ditto, without ornament. 77. Represents a wolf carved from wood, with rude arrow-head attached to back. 78. Wolf. 79. Horse with saddle; white quartz; used in prayers to promote reproduction of herds. (Of Navajo importation.) 80. Animal with four outspreading limbs. Cut from small flat stone. 81. Coyote. 82. Wolf with arrow-head on back. 83. Quadruped with short thick body of fine-grained sandstone. 84. Similar to 83, with flint flake attached to body. 85. Probably designed for a wolf; flint flake on back. 86. Wild-cat. 87. Ditto. 88. Coyote. 89. Armlet of quartz crystal used in the formation of the medicine water of secret orders. Sai-a-ko-ma á-tësh-kwin-ne. 90. Ditto, in calcareous spar. 91. Ditto, in the form of a small cat, for use before the altar during the same ceremonial. Sai-a-ko-ma á-tësh-kwin-te-pi wém. 92. Ditto, in spar in the form of a pestle. 93. Ditto, in fine-ground, dark sandstone, in the form of a pestle. 94, 95. Small-banded spar pendants, used in the ceremonial described under No. 8. 96. Ditto, long, with a depression or groove about the middle. 97. One of the sacred ancient medicine stones. A-‘thlä-shi (a small fossil ammonite). 98. Ditto, a fossil univalve. 99. Ditto, concretion in form of human testicles and of phallic significance. Mo-ha a´-thlä-shi. 100. Ditto, slag, used as in No. 97. 101. Ditto, ditto, stalagmitic. 102. Ditto, chalcedony concretion, ditto. 531 103. Stone knife of obsidian, with string for suspension, used in ceremonial scalp taking—one of which is carried on journeys by each member of the Priesthood of the Bow, or Order of the Knife. Mó-tsi-k’wash-na kia tí-mush. 104 to 125. Ancient flint knives preserved as amulets and relics of ancestors among the Zuñis. 125 to 150. Arrow points, &c., preserved by modern Zuñis as relics of ancestors, and amulets used in various ceremonials, &c. Miscellaneous objects not numbered in catalogue: Three bow-guards for children. Kém pas si-kwi-we. Two small rattles for children. A-tsa-na a-wen chím-mo-we. Three awls, used in the weaving of blankets and baskets. Sá-si-mo-we. Four sets of small flat sticks used in the game of tá-sho-li-we.


Type:Science
👁 :1
HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL Author: Anonymous
Catagory: History
Author:
Posted Date:11/04/2024
Posted By:utopia online

I am setting myself a task which some people would call very ambitious; others would call it by a name not quite so polite; and a considerable number would say it was positively absurd, accompanying their criticism with derisive laughter. Having discussed the possibility of teaching the art of writing fiction with a good many different kinds of people, I know quite intimately the opinions which are likely to be expressed about this little book; and although I do not intend to burden the reader with an account of their respective merits, I do intend to make my own position as clear as possible. First of all, I will examine the results of a recent symposium on the general question.[1:A] [2]When asked as to the practicability of a School of Fiction, Messrs Robert Barr, G. Manville Fenn, M. Betham Edwards, Arthur Morrison, G. B. Burgin, C. J. C. Hyne, and "Mr" John Oliver Hobbes declared against it; Miss Mary L. Pendered and Miss Clementina Black—with certain reservations—spoke in favour of such an institution. True, these names do not include all representatives of the high places in Fiction, but they are quite respectable enough for my purpose. It will be seen that the vote is adverse to the object I have in view. Why? Well, here are a few reasons. Mr Morrison affirms that writing as a trade is far too pleasant an idea; John Oliver Hobbes is of opinion that it is impossible to teach anyone how to produce a work of imagination; and Mr G. B. Burgin asserts that genius is its own teacher—a remark characterised by unwitting modesty. Now, with the spirit of these convictions I am not disposed to quarrel. This is an age which imagines that everything can be crammed into the limits of an academical curriculum; and there are actually some people who would not hesitate to endow a chair [3]of "Ideas and Imagination." We need to be reminded occasionally that there are incommunicable elements in all art. An Inevitable Comparison But the question arises: If there be an art of literature, why cannot its principles be taught and practised as well as those of any other art? We have schools of Painting, Sculpture, and Music—why not a school of Fiction? Let it be supposed that a would-be artist has conceived a brilliant idea which he is anxious to embody in literature or put on a canvas. In order to do so, he must observe certain well-established rules which we may call the grammar of art: for just as in literature a man may express beautiful ideas in ungrammatical language, and without any sense of relationship or development, so may the same ideas be put in a picture, and yet the art be of the crudest. Now, in what way will our would-be artist become acquainted with those rules? The answer is simple. If his genius had been of the first order he would have known [4]them intuitively: the society of men and women, of great books and fine pictures, would have provided sufficient stimuli to bring forth the best productions of his mind. Thus Shakespeare was never taught the principles of dramatic art; Bach had an instinctive appreciation of the laws of harmony; and Turner had the same insight into laws of painting. These were artists of the front rank: they simply looked—and understood. But if his powers belonged to the order which is called talent, he would have to do one of two things: either stumble upon these rules one by one and learn them by experience—or be taught them in their true order by others, in which case an Institute of Literary Art would already exist in an embryonic stage. Why should it not be developed into a matured school? Is it that the dignity of genius forbids it, or that pupilage is half a disgrace? True genius never shuns the marks of the learner. Even Shakespeare grew in the understanding of art and in his power of handling its elements. Professor Dowden says: "In the 'Two Gentlemen of Verona,' Porteus, the fickle, is set [5]over against Valentine the faithful; Sylvia, the bright and intellectual, is set over against Julia, the ardent and tender; Launce, the humorist, is set over against Speed, the wit. This indicates a certain want of confidence on the part of the poet; he fears the weight of too much liberty. He cannot yet feel that his structure is secure without a mechanism to support the structure. He endeavours to attain unity of effect less by the inspiration of a common life than by the disposition of parts. In the early plays structure determines function; in the later plays organisation is preceded by life."[5:A] A Model Lesson in Novel-Writing When certain grumpy folk ask: "How do you propose to draw up your lessons on 'The way to find Local Colour'; 'Plotting'; 'How to manage a Love-Scene,' and so forth?" it is expected that a writer like myself will be greatly disconcerted. Not at all. It so happens that a distinguished critic, now deceased, [6]once delivered himself on the possibility of teaching literary art, and I propose to quote a paragraph or two from his article. "The morning finds the master in his working arm-chair; and seated about the room which is generally the study, but is now the studio, are some half-dozen pupils. The subject for the hour is narrative-construction, and the master holds in his hand a small MS. which, as he slowly reads it aloud, proves to be a somewhat elaborate synopsis of the story of one of his own published or projected novels. The reading over, students are free to state objections, or to ask questions. One remarks that the dénouement is brought about by a mere accident, and therefore seems to lack the inevitableness which, the master has always taught, is essential to organic unity. The criticism is recognised as intelligent, but the master shows that the accident has not the purely fortuitous character which renders it obnoxious to the general objection. While it is technically an accident, it is in reality hardly accidental, but an occurrence which fits naturally into an opening provided by a given set of circumstances, the circumstances having been brought about by [7]a course of action which is vitally characteristic of the person whose fate is involved. Then the master himself will ask a question. 'The students,' he says, 'will have noticed that a character who takes no important part in the action until the story is more than half told, makes an insignificant and unnoticeable appearance in a very early chapter, where he seems a purposeless and irrelevant intrusion.' They have paper before them, and he gives them twenty minutes in which to state their opinion as to whether this premature appearance is, or is not, justified by the canons of narrative art, giving, of course, the reasons upon which that opinion has been formed. The papers are handed in to be reported upon next morning, and the lesson is at an end."[7:A] This is James Ashcroft Noble's idea of handling a theme in fiction; one of a large and varied number. To me it is a feasible plan emanating from a man who was the sanest of literary advisers. If it be objected that Mr Noble was only a critic and not a novelist, perhaps a word from [8]Sir Walter Besant may add the needful element of authority. "I can conceive of a lecturer dissecting a work, or a series of works, showing how the thing sprang first from a central figure in a central group; how there arose about this group, scenery, the setting of the fable; how the atmosphere became presently charged with the presence of mankind, other characters attaching themselves to the group; how situations, scenes, conversations, led up little by little to the full development of this central idea. I can also conceive of a School of Fiction in which the students should be made to practise observation, description, dialogue, and dramatic effects. The student, in fact, would be taught how to use his tools." A reading-class for the artistic study of great writers could not be other than helpful. One lesson might be devoted to the way in which the best authors foreshadowed crises and important turns in events. An example may be found in "Julius Cæsar," where, in the second scene, the soothsayer says: "Beware the Ides of March!" —a solitary voice in strange contrast with [9]those by whom he is surrounded, and preparing us for the dark deed upon which the play is based. Or the text-book might be a modern novel—Hardy's "Well-Beloved" for instance—a work full of delicate literary craftsmanship. The storm which overtook Pierston and Miss Bencomb is prepared for—first by the conversation of two men who pass them on the road, and one of whom casually remarks that the weather seems likely to change; then Pierston himself observes "the evening—louring"; finally, and most suddenly, the rain descends in perfect fury. The Teachable and the Unteachable I hope my position is now beginning to be tolerably clear to the reader. I address myself to the man or woman of talent—those people who have writing ability, but who need instruction in the manipulation of characters, the formation of plots, and a host of other points with which I shall deal hereafter. As to what is teachable, and not teachable, in writing novels, perhaps I may be permitted to use a close [10]analogy. Style, per se, is absolutely unteachable simply because it is the man himself; you cannot teach personality. Can Dickens, Thackeray, and George Meredith be reduced to an academic schedule? Never. Every soul of man is an individual entity and cannot be reproduced. But although style is incommunicable, the writing of easy, graceful English can be taught in any class-room—that is to say, the structure of sentences and paragraphs, the logical sequence of thought, and the secret of forceful expression are capable of exact scientific treatment. In like manner, although no school could turn out novelists to order—a supply of Stevensons annually, and a brace of Hardys every two years—there is yet enough common material in all art-work to be mapped out in a course of lessons. I shall show that the two great requisites of novel-writing are (1) a good story to tell, and (2) ability to tell it effectively. Briefly stated, my position is this: no teaching can produce "good stories to tell," but it can increase the power of "the telling," and change it from crude and ineffective methods to those which reach [11]the apex of developed art. Of course there are dangers to be avoided, and the chief of them is that mechanical correctness, "so praiseworthy and so intolerable," as Lowell says in his essay on Lessing. But this need not be an insurmountable difficulty. A truly educated man never labours to speak correctly; being educated, grammatical language follows as a necessary consequence. The same is true of the artist: when he has learned the secrets of literature, he puts away all thoughts of rule and law—nay, in time, his very ideas assume artistic form. Where do Novelists get their Stories from? I said a moment ago that no teaching could impart a story. If you cannot invent one for yourself, by observation of life and sympathetic insight into human nature, you may depend upon it that you are not called to be a writer of novels. Then where, it may be asked, do novelists get their stories? Well, they hardly know themselves; they say the ideas "come." For instance, here is the way Mr Baring Gould describes the advent of "Mehalah." "One day in Essex, a friend, a captain in the coastguard, invited me to accompany him on a cruise among the creeks in the estuary of the Maldon river—the Blackwater. I went out, and we spent the day running among mud flats and low holms, covered with coarse grass and wild lavender, [13]and startling wild-fowl. We stopped at a ruined farm built on arches above this marsh to eat some lunch; no glass was in the windows, and the raw wind howled in and swept around us. That night I was laid up with a heavy cold. I tossed in bed and was in the marshes in imagination, listening to the wind and the lap of the tide; and 'Mehalah' naturally rose out of it all, a tragic gloomy tale."[13:A] Exactly. "Mehalah" rose; that is enough! If ideas, plots of stories, and new groupings of character do not "rise" in your mind, it is simply because you lack the power to originate them spontaneously. Take the somewhat fabulous story of Newton and the apple. Many a man before Sir Isaac had seen an apple fall, but not one of them used that observation as he did. In the same way there are scores of men who have the same experiences and live the same kind of life, but it occurs to only one among their number to gather up these experiences into an interesting narrative. Why should it "occur" to one and not the others? [14]Because the one has literary gifts and literary impetus, and the others—haven't. Is there a Deeper Question? Having dealt with that side of the subject, I should like to say that all novelists have their own methods of obtaining raw material for stories. By raw material I mean those facts of life which give birth to narrative ideas. It is said of Thomas Hardy that he never rides in an omnibus or railway carriage without mentally inventing the history of every traveller. One has to beware of fables in writing of such men, but I have no reason to doubt the statement just made. I do not make it with the intention of advocating anybody to go and do likewise, but as illustrating one way of studying human nature and developing the imaginative faculty. It will be necessary to speak of observation a good many times in the course of these remarks, and one might as well say what the word really means. Does it mean "seeing things"? A great deal more than that. It is very easy to "see [15]things" and yet not observe at all. If you want ideas for stories, or characters with which to form a longer narrative, you must not only use your eyes but your mind. What is wanted is observation with inference; or, to be more correct, with imagination. Make sure that you know the traits of character that are typically human; those which are the same in a Boer, a Hindu, or a Chinaman. It is not difficult to mark the special points of each of these as distinct from the Englishman; but your first duty is to know human nature per se. How is that knowledge to be obtained? do you say! Well, begin with yourself; there is ample scope in that direction. And when you are tired of looking within—look without. Enter a tram-car and listen to the people talking. Who talks the loudest? What kind of woman is it who always gives the conductor most trouble? The man who sits at the far end of the car in a shabby coat, and who is regarding his boots with a fixed, anxious stare—what is he thinking about? and what is his history? Then a baby begins to yell, and its mother cannot soothe it. One old man smiles benignly on the [16]struggling infant, but the old man next to him looks "daggers." And why? To see character in action there is no finer vantage-point than the top of a London omnibus. Watch the way in which people walk; notice their forms of salutation when they meet; and study the expressions on their faces. Tragedy and comedy are everywhere, and you have not to go beneath the surface of life in order to find them. It sounds prosaic enough to speak of studying human nature at a railway station, but such places are brimful of event. I know more than one novelist who has found his "motif" by quietly watching the crowd on a platform from behind a waiting-room window. Wherever humanity congregates there should the student be. Not that he should restrict his observations to men and women in groups or masses—he must cover all the ground by including individuals who are to be specially considered. The logician's terms come in handy at this point: extensive and intensive—such must be the methods of a beginner's analysis of his fellow-creatures. [17] What about the Newspapers? The daily press is the great mirror of human events. When we open the paper at our breakfast table we find a literal record of the previous day's joy and sorrow—marriages and murders, failures and successes, news from afar and news from the next street—they all find a place. The would-be novel writer should be a diligent student of the newspaper. In no other sphere will he discover such a plenitude of raw material. Some of the cases tried at the Courts contain elements of dramatic quality far beyond those he has ever imagined; and here and there may be found in miniature the outlines of a splendid plot. Of course everything depends on the reader's mind. If you cannot read between the lines—that is the end of the matter, and your novel will remain unwritten; but if you can—some day you may expect to succeed. I once came across a practical illustration of the manner in which a newspaper paragraph was treated imaginatively. The result is rather crude and unfinished, but [18]most likely it was never intended to stand as a finished production, occurring as it does, in an American book on American journalism.[18:A] Here is the paragraph: "John Simpson and Michael Flannagan, two railroad labourers, quarrelled yesterday morning, and Flannagan killed Simpson with a coupling-pin. The murderer is in jail. He says Simpson provoked him and dared him to strike." Now the question arises: What was the quarrel about? We don't know; so an originating cause must be invented. The inventor whose illustration I am about to give conceived the story thus: "'Taint none o' yer business how often I go to see the girl." "Ef Oi ketch yez around my Nora's house agin, Oi'll break a hole in yer shneakin' head, d'ye moind thot!" "You braggin' Irish coward, you haint got sand enough in you to come down off'n that car and say that to my face." [19]It was John Simpson, a yard switchman who spoke this taunt to a section hand. A moment more and Michael Flannagan stood on the ground beside him. There was a murderous fire in the Irishman's eyes, and in his hand he held a heavy coupling-pin. "Tut! tut! Mike. Throw away the iron and play fair. You can wallup him!" cried the rest of the gang. "He's a coward; he dassn't hit me," came the wasp-like taunt of the switchman. "Let him alone, fellers; his girl's give him the shake, and——" Those were the last words Simpson spoke. The murderous coupling-pin had descended like a scimitar and crushed his skull. An awed silence fell upon the little group as they raised the fallen man and saw that he was dead. "Ye'll be hangin' fur this, Mikey, me bye," whispered one of his horrified companions as the police dragged off the unresisting murderer. "Oi don't care," came the sullen reply, with a dry sob that belied it. Then, with a look of unutterable hatred, and a nod [20]towards the white, upturned face of his enemy, he added under his breath, "He'll niver git her now." This is enough to give the beginner an idea of the way in which stories and plots sometimes "occur" to writers of fiction. It is, however, only one of a thousand ways, and my advice to the novice is this: Keep your eyes and ears open; observe and inquire, read and reflect; look at life and the things of life from your own point of view; and just as a financier manipulates events for the sake of money, so ought you to turn all your experiences into the mould of fiction. If, after this, you don't succeed, it is evident you have made a mistake. Be courageous enough to acknowledge the fact, and leave the writing of novels to others. HOW TO BEGIN You have now obtained your story—in its bare outlines, at least. The next question is, How are you to make a start? Well, that is an important question, and it cannot be evaded. Clarence Rook, in a waggish moment, said two things were necessary in order to write a novel: (1) Writing Materials, (2) A Month; but he seems to have thought that the month should be a month's imprisonment for attempting such an indiscretion. In these pages, however, we are serious folk, and having thanked Mr Rook for his pleasantry, we return to the point before us. First of all, What kind of a novel is yours to be? Historical? If so, have [22]you read all the authorities? Do you feel the throb of the life of that period about which you are going to write? Are its chief personages living beings in your imagination? and have you learned all the details respecting customs, manners, language, and dress? If not, you are very far from being ready to make a start, even though the "story" itself is quite clear to you. Our great historical novelists devour libraries before they sit down to write. One would like to know how many books Dr Conan Doyle digested before he published "The Refugees," and Stanley Weyman before he brought out his "A Gentleman of France." Do not be carried away with the alluring idea that it is easy to take up historical subjects because the characters are there to hand, and the "story" practically "made." Directly you make the attempt, you will find out your mistake. Write about the life you know best—the life of the present day. You will then avoid the necessity of keeping everything in chronological perspective—a necessity which an open-air preacher, whom I heard last [23]week, quite forgot when he said that the sailors shouted down the hatchway to the sleeping Prophet of Nineveh: "Jonah! We're sinking! Come and help us with the pumps!" No; before you begin, have a clear idea of what you are going to do. The type of your story will in many cases decide the kind of treatment required; but it may be well, nevertheless, to say a few words about the various kinds of novels that are written nowadays, and the differences that separate them one from another. There is the Realistic novel, of which Mr Maugham's "Liza of Lambeth" and Mr Morrison's "A Child of the Jago" may be taken as recent examples. These authors attempt to picture life as it is; they sink their own personalities, and endeavour to write a literal account of the "personalities" of other people. Very often they succeed, but absolute realism is impossible unless a man has no objection to appearing in a Police Court. In this type of fiction, plot, action, and inter-play of characters are not important: the main purpose is a sort of literary [24]biograph; life in action, without comment or underlying philosophy, and minus the pre-eminent factor of art. Then there is the novel of Manners. The customs of life, the social peculiarities of certain groups of men and women, the humours and moral qualities of life—these are the chief features in the novel of manners. As a form of fiction it is earlier than the realistic novel, but both are alike in having little or no concern with plot and character development. Next comes the novel of Incident. Here the stress is placed upon particular events—what led up to them and the consequences that followed—hence the structure of the narrative, and the powers of movement and suspense are important factors in achieving success. A Romance is in a very important sense a novel of incident, but the "incident" is specialised in character, and usually deals with the passionate and fundamental powers of man—hate, jealousy, revenge, and scenes of violence. Or it may be "incident" which has to do with life in other worlds as imagined [25]by the writer, and occasionally takes on the style of the supernatural. Lastly, there is the Dramatic novel, where the chief feature is the influence of event on character, and of characters on each other. Now, to which class is your projected novel to belong? In fiction you must walk by sight and not by faith. Never sit down to write believing that although you can't see the finish of your story, it will come out all right "in the end." It won't. You should know at the outset to which type of fiction you are to devote your energies; how, otherwise, can you observe the laws of art which govern its ideal being? Formation of the Plot In one sense your plot is formed already—that is to say, the very idea of your story involves a plot more or less distinct. As yet, however, you do not see clearly how things are going to work out, and it is now your business to settle [26]the matter so far as it lies in your power to do so. Now, a plot is not made; it is a structural growth. Suppose you wish to present a domestic scene in which the folly of high temper is to be proved. Is not the plot concealed in the idea? Certainly. Hence you perhaps place a man and his wife at breakfast. They begin to talk amiably, then become quarrelsome, and finally fall into loving agreement. Or you light upon a more original plan of bringing out your point; but in any case, the plot evolves itself step by step. Wilkie Collins has left some interesting gossip behind him with reference to "The Woman in White": "My first proceeding is to get my central idea—the pivot on which the story turns. The central idea in 'The Woman in White' is the idea of a conspiracy in private life, in which circumstances are so handled as to rob a woman of her identity, by confounding her with another woman sufficiently like her in personal appearance to answer the wicked purpose. The destruction of her identity represents a first division of her story; the recovery of her identity marks a second division. My central [27]idea next suggests some of my chief characters. "A clever devil must conduct the conspiracy. Male devil or female devil? The sort of wickedness wanted seems to be a man's wickedness. Perhaps a foreign man. Count Fosco faintly shows himself to me before I know his name. I let him wait, and begin to think about the two women. They must be both innocent, and both interesting. Lady Glyde dawns on me as one of the innocent victims. I try to discover the other—and fail. I try what a walk will do for me—and fail. I devote the evening to a new effort—and fail. Experience tells me to take no more trouble about it, and leave that other woman to come of her own accord. The next morning before I have been awake in my bed for more than ten minutes, my perverse brains set to work without consulting me. Poor Anne Catherick comes into the room, and says 'Try me.' "I have now got an idea, and three of my characters. What is there to do now? My next proceeding is to begin building up the story. Here my favourite [28]three efforts must be encountered. First effort: To begin at the beginning. Second effort: To keep the story always advancing, without paying the smallest attention to the serial division in parts, or to the book publications in volumes. Third effort: To decide on the end. All this is done as my father used to paint his skies in his famous sea-pictures—at one heat. As yet I do not enter into details; I merely set up my landmarks. In doing this, the main situations of the story present themselves in all sorts of new aspects. These discoveries lead me nearer and nearer to finding the right end. The end being decided on, I go back again to the beginning, and look at it with a new eye, and fail to be satisfied with it." The Agonies and Joys of "Plot-Construction" "I have yielded to the worst temptation that besets a novelist—the temptation to begin with a striking incident without counting the cost in the shape of explanations that must and will follow. [29]These pests of fiction, to reader and writer alike, can only be eradicated in one way. I have already mentioned the way—to begin at the beginning. In the case of 'The Woman in White,' I get back, as I vainly believe, to the true starting-point of the story. I am now at liberty to set the new novel going, having, let me repeat, no more than an outline of story and characters before me, and leaving the details in each case to the spur of the moment. For a week, as well as I can remember, I work for the best part of every day, but not as happily as usual. An unpleasant sense of something wrong worries me. At the beginning of the second week a disheartening discovery reveals itself. I have not found the right beginning of 'The Woman in White' yet. The scene of my opening chapters is in Cumberland. Miss Fairlie (afterwards Lady Glyde); Mr Fairlie, with his irritable nerves and his art treasures; Miss Halcombe (discovered suddenly, like Anne Catherick), are all waiting the arrival of the young drawing-master, Walter Hartwright. No; this won't do. The person to be first introduced [30]is Anne Catherick. She must already be a familiar figure to the reader when the reader accompanies me to Cumberland. This is what must be done, but I don't see how to do it; no new idea comes to me; I and my MS. have quarrelled, and don't speak to each other. One evening I happen to read of a lunatic who has escaped from an asylum—a paragraph of a few lines only in a newspaper. Instantly the idea comes to me of Walter Hartwright's midnight meeting with Anne Catherick escaped from the asylum. 'The Woman in White' begins again, and nobody will ever be half as much interested in it now as I am. From that moment I have done with my miseries. For the next six months the pen goes on. It is work, hard work; but the harder the better, for this excellent reason: the work is its own exceeding great reward. As an example of the gradual manner in which I reached the development of character, I may return for a moment to Fosco. The making him fat was an afterthought; his canaries and his white mice were found next; and, the most valuable [31]discovery of all, his admiration of Miss Halcombe, took its rise in a conviction that he would not be true to nature unless there was some weak point somewhere in his character." Care in the Use of Actual Events I do not apologise for the lengthiness of this quotation—it is so much to the point, and is replete with instructive ideas. The beginner must beware of following actual events too closely. There is a danger of accepting actuality instead of literary possibility as the measure of value. Picturesque means fit to be put in a picture, and literatesque means fit to be put in a book. In making your plot, therefore, be quite sure you have a subject with these said possibilities in it, and that in developing them by an ordered and cumulative series of events, you are following the wise rule laid down by Aristotle: "Prefer an impossibility which seems probable, to a probability which seems impossible." Remember always that truth is stranger [32]than fiction. Let facts, newspaper items, things seen and heard, suggest as much as you please, but never follow literally the literal event. Then your plot must be original. I was amused some time ago by reading the editorial notice to correspondents in an American paper. That editor meant to save the time of his contributors as well as his own, and he gave a list of the plots he did not want. The paper was one which catered for young people. Here is a selection from the list: 1. A lost purse where the finder is tempted to keep it, but finally rises to the emergency and returns it. 2. Heaping coals of fire(!) 3. Saving one's enemy from drowning. 4. Stories of cruel step-mothers. 5. Children praying, and having their prayers answered through being overheard, etc., etc. Mr Clarence Rook, to whom I have previously referred, says: "There are several plots, four or five, at least. Here are some of the recipes for them. [33]You may rely on them to give thorough satisfaction. Thousands use them daily, and having tried them once, use no other. Take a heroine. The age of heroes is past, and this is the age of heroines. She must be noble, high-souled. (Souls have been worn very high for the past few seasons.) Her soul is too high for conventional morality. Mix her up with some disgraceful situations, taking care to add the purest of motives. Let her poison her mother and run away with a thoughtful scavenger. When you are tired of her you can pitch her over Waterloo Bridge."[33:A] Over against this style of criticism I should like to place another which comes from an academical source. Speaking of the plots of Hall Caine's novels, Professor Saintsbury says that, "with the exception of 'The Scapegoat,' there is an extraordinary and almost heroic monotony of plot. One might almost throw Mr Caine's plots into the form which is used by comparative students of folk-lore to tabulate the various [34]versions of the same legends. Two close relations (if not brothers, at least cousins) the relationship being sometimes legal, sometimes only natural, fall in love with the same girl ('Shadow,' 'Hagar,' 'Bondman,' 'Manxman'); in 'The Deemster' the situation is slightly but not really very different, the brother being jealous of the cousin's affection. In almost all cases there is renunciation by one; in all, including 'The Deemster,' one has, if both have not, to pay more or less heavy penalties for the intended or unintended rivalry. Sometimes, as in 'The Shadow of a Crime,' 'A Son of Hagar,' and 'The Bondman,' filial relations are brought in to augment the strife of sentiment in the individual. Sometimes ('Shadow,' 'Bondman,' and to some extent 'Manxman') the worsted and renouncing party is self-sacrificing more or less all through; sometimes ('Hagar,' 'Deemster,') he is violent for a time, and only at last repents. In two cases ('Deemster,' 'Manxman,') the injured one, or the one who thinks he is injured, has a rival at his mercy in sleep or disease, is tempted to take his life and [35]forbears. This might be worked out still further."[35:A] No; you must be original or nothing at all. Of course your originality may not be striking, but, at any rate, make your own plot, and let others judge it. It is far better to do that than to copy others weakly. Originality and sincerity are pretty much the same thing, as Carlyle observed; and if you want a stimulating essay on the subject, read Lewes' "Principles of Success in Literature," a book, by the way, which you ought to master thoroughly. The Natural History of a Plot I have quoted already from Wilkie Collins as to the growth of plot from its embryo stages, but that need not deter us from taking an imaginary example. Let us suppose that you have been possessed for some time with the idea of treating the great facts of race and religion as a theme for a novel. After casting about for a suitable illustration, [36]you finally decide that a Jewish girl, with strictly orthodox parentage, shall fall in love with a youth of Gentile blood, and Roman Catholic in religion. That is the bare idea. You can see at once how many dramatic possibilities it presents; for the passion of love in each case is pitted against the forces of religious prejudice; and all the powers of racial exclusiveness are brought into full play. Now, what is the first thing to do? Well, for you as a beginner, it is to decide how the story shall end. Why? Because everything depends on that. If you intend them to have a short flirtation, your course of procedure will be very different to that which must inevitably follow if you intend to make them marry. In the first case, you will have to provide for the stern and unalterable facts of race and religion; in the second, for the possibility of their being overcome. To illustrate further, let me suppose that the Jewess and the Gentile youth are ultimately to marry. How will this affect your choice of characters? It will compel you to choose a Jewess who, although brought up in the orthodox fashion, has enough [37]ability and education to appreciate life and thought outside her own immediate circle, and you must invent facts to account for these things, even though she still worships at the synagogue. On the other hand, the Gentile Catholic must be a man of liberal tendencies, or he would never think twice about the Jewess with the possibility of marrying her. He may persuade himself that he is a good Catholic, but you are bound to prepare your readers for actions which, to say the least, are not normal in men of such religious profession. The choice of your secondary characters is also determined by the end in view. Because your story has to do with Jews and Catholics, that is no reason why your pages should be full of Jews and priests. You want just as many other people, in addition to your hero and heroine, as are necessary to bring about the dénouement: not one more, not one less. Now, the end in view is to make these young people triumph over their race and their religion; and over and above the difficulties they have between themselves, there are difficulties placed [38]by other people. By whom? Here is a chance for your inventiveness. I would suggest as a beginning that you create parents for the girl and for the man—orthodox in each case, and unyielding to the last degree. Give them a name, and put them down on your list. Money is likely to figure in a narrative of this kind, and you might arrange for the opportune entrance of an uncle on the girl's side, who threatens to alter his will (at present made in her interest) if she encourages the advances of her Gentile lover. On the man's side, the priest, of course, will have something to say, and you will be compelled to make a place for him. In this way your characters will grow to their complete number, and I should advise you to draw up a list of them, and opposite each one write a few notes describing the part they will have to play. One word on nomenclature. There is a mystic suitability—at any rate in novels—between a name and a character. To call your marvellous heroine "Annie" is to hoist a signal of distress, unless you have a unique power of characterisation; and to speak of your hero as "William" [39]is to handicap his movements from the start. I am not pleading for fancy names, but just for that distinctiveness in choice which the artistic sense decides is fitting. To return. The end in view will also shape the course of events. Instead of arranging that these are to be a series of psychological skirmishes between two people the poles asunder (as would be the case if their relations were superficial), you have to arrange for events where the characters are in dead earnest. Then, too, in order to relieve the tense nature of the narrative, it will be necessary to provide for happenings which, though not exactly humorous, are still light enough to distract the attention from the severer aspects of the story. Further, the natural background should be selected with an eye to the main issue, and each event should have that cumulative effect which ultimately leads the reader on to the climax. Of course, it is possible to take a quite different dénouement to the one here considered. You might make the pair desperately in love, but foiled by [40]some disaster near the end. In this case, as in the other, the narrative will, or ought to, change its perspective accordingly. Sir Walter Besant on the Evolution of a Plot In order to illustrate the subject still further, I quote the following:— "Consider—say, a diamond robbery. Very well: then, first of all, it must be a robbery committed under exceptional and mysterious conditions, otherwise there would be no interest in it. Also, you will perceive that the robbery must be a big and important thing—no little shoplifting business. Next, the person robbed must not be a mere diamond merchant, but a person whose loss will interest the reader, say, one to whom the robbery is all-important. She shall be, say, a vulgar woman with an overweening pride in her jewels, and, of course, without the money to replace them if they are lost. They [41]must be so valuable as to be worn only on extraordinary occasions, and too valuable to be kept at home. They must be consigned to the care of a jeweller who has strong rooms. You observe that the story is now growing. You have got the preliminary germ. How can the strong room be entered and robbed? Well, it cannot. That expedient will not do. Can the diamonds be taken from the lady while she is wearing them? That would have done in the days of the gallant Claude Duval, but it will not do now. Might the house be broken into by a burglar on a night when a lady had worn them and returned? But she would not rest with such a great property in the house unprotected. They must be taken back to their guardian the same night. Thus the only vulnerable point in the care of the diamonds seems their carriage to and from their guardian. They must be stolen between the jeweller's and the owner's house. Then by whom? The robbery must somehow be connected with the hero of the love story—that is indispensable; he must be innocent of all complicity in it—that is equally [42]indispensable; he must preserve our respect; he will have to be somehow a victim: how is that to be managed? "The story is getting on in earnest. . . . The only way—or the best way—seems, on consideration, to make the lover be the person who is entrusted with the carriage of this precious package of jewels to and from their owner's house. This, however, is not a very distinguished rôle to play; it wants a very skilled hand to interest us in a jeweller's assistant. . . . We must therefore give this young man an exceptional position. Force of circumstances, perhaps, has compelled him to accept the situation which he holds. He need not, again, be a shopman; he may be a confidential employé, holding a position of great trust; and he may be a young man with ambitions outside the narrow circle of his work. "The girl to whom he is engaged must be lovable to begin with; she must be of the same station in life as her lover—that is to say, of the middle class, and preferably of the professional class. As [43]to her home circle, that must be distinctive and interesting."[43:A] I need not quote any further for my present purpose, which is to show mental procedure in plot-formation; but the whole article is full of sound teaching on this and other points. Plot-Formation in Earnest You have now obtained your characters, and a general outline of the events their actions will compass. What comes next? A carefully written-out statement of the story from the beginning to the end; that is the next step. This story should contain just as much as you would give in outlining the plot to a friend in the course of conversation. It would briefly detail the characters and circumstances of the hero and heroine, and the events which led to their first meeting each other. You would then describe the ripening of their friendship, and the gradual growth of social hostility to the idea of a [44]projected union. The psychological transformations, the domestic infelicities, the racial animosities—these will find suitable expression in word and action. At last the season of cruel suspense is over, and the pair have arrived at their great decision. Elaborate preventive plans are arranged to frustrate their purpose, and there is much excitement lest they should succeed; but when all have done their best, the two are happily wedded and the story is ended. The exercise of writing out a plain, unvarnished statement of what you are going to do is one that will enable you to see whether your story has balance or not, and it will most certainly test its power to interest; for if in its bald form there is real story in it, you may well believe that when properly written it will possess the true fascination of fiction. Now, a plot is much like a drama, and should have a beginning, a middle, and an end; answering roughly to premiss, argument, and conclusion. There is no better training in plot-study than the reading of such a book as Professor Moulton's "Shakespeare as a Dramatic [45]Artist," in which the author, with rare critical skill, exhibits the construction of plots that are an object of never-ceasing wonder. I will dare to reiterate what I have said before. Take your stand at the end of the story, and work it out backwards. For an excellent illustration see Edgar Allan Poe's account of how he came to write "The Raven" (Appendix I.). Perhaps you object to this kind of literary dissection? You think it spoils the effect of a work of art to be too familiar with its physiology? I do not grant these points; but even if they are true, that is no reason why you yourself should be offended by the sight of ropes and pulleys behind the scenes. No; work out the details from the end, and not from the beginning. No character and no action should find a place if it contributes nothing towards the dénouement. Characters first: Plot afterwards It must not be supposed that a plot always comes first in the constructing of a novel. Very often the characters [46]suggest themselves long before the story is even vaguely outlined. Nor is there any reason why such a story should be any worse because it did not originate in the usual way. In fact, the probabilities are that it will be all the better, on account of its stress upon character, and the reaction of various characters on each other. I imagine "Jude the Obscure" grew in this fashion. There is no very striking plot in the book; at any rate not the plot we have in mind when we think of "The Moonstone." But if plot means the inevitable evolution of certain men and women in given circumstances, then there is plot of a high order. In the usual acceptation of the term, however, "Jude the Obscure" is a novel of character; and most probably Jude existed as a creature of imagination months before it was ever thought he would go to Oxford, or have an adventure with Sue. To many men, doubtless, there is far more fascination in conceiving a group of characters in which there are two or three supreme figures, and then setting to work to discover a narrative which will give them the freest action, [47]than in toiling over the bare idea, the subsequent plot, followed by a series of actors and actresses who work out the dénouement. Should you belong to this number, do not hesitate to act accordingly. Nothing wooden in style or method finds a place in these pages, and since some of the finest creations have arisen in the order indicated at the head of this section, perhaps you are to be congratulated that the work before you will be a living growth rather than a mechanical contrivance. The Natural Background Since your story will presumably be located somewhere on this planet, the next thing to do is to obtain a thorough knowledge of the places where your characters will display themselves. If the scenes are laid in a district which you know by heart, you are not likely to go astray; but more often than not, the scenes are largely imaginative, especially in reference to smaller items such as [48]roads, rivers, trees, and woods. The best plan is to follow the example of Thomas Hardy, and draw a map—both geographical and topographical—of the country and the towns in which your hero and heroine, and subordinate characters, will appear for the interest of the reader. That individual does not care to be puzzled with semi-miraculous transmittances through space. I read a novel some time ago, where on one page the heroine was busy shopping in London, and on the next page was—an hour afterwards—quietly having tea with her beloved somewhere in the Midlands. But the drawing of a map, and using it closely, will not merely render such negative assistance as to avoid mistakes of this kind, it will act positively as a stimulus to creative suggestion. You can follow the lover's jealous rival along the road that leads to the meeting-place with increased imaginative power. That measure of realism which makes the ideal both possible and interesting will come all the more easily, because the map aids you in following the movements of your characters; in fact, if you take this [49]second step with serious resolution, it will go far to add that piquant something which renders your story a series of life-like happenings. The result will be equally beneficial to the reader. It may be a moot question as to how far the map in Stevenson's "Treasure Island" deepens the interest of those who read this exciting story, but in my humble opinion it adds an actuality to the events which is most convincing. Mr Maurice Hewlett has followed suit in his "Forest Lovers." I do not say publish your map, but draw one and use it. A poor story accompanied by a good map would be too ridiculous; so you had better give all your attention to the narrative, and leave the publication of maps until later days.


Type:Science
👁 :
IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT UNDERGOES, AT A SPEED OF TWENTY MILES AN HOUR, A COURSE OF MORMON HISTORY Author: Jules Verne
Catagory:Reading
Author:
Posted Date:11/04/2024
Posted By:utopia online

During the night of the 5th of December, the train ran south-easterly for about fifty miles; then rose an equal distance in a north-easterly direction, towards the Great Salt Lake. Passepartout, about nine o’clock, went out upon the platform to take the air. The weather was cold, the heavens grey, but it was not snowing. The sun’s disc, enlarged by the mist, seemed an enormous ring of gold, and Passepartout was amusing himself by calculating its value in pounds sterling, when he was diverted from this interesting study by a strange-looking personage who made his appearance on the platform. This personage, who had taken the train at Elko, was tall and dark, with black moustache, black stockings, a black silk hat, a black waistcoat, black trousers, a white cravat, and dogskin gloves. He might have been taken for a clergyman. He went from one end of the train to the other, and affixed to the door of each car a notice written in manuscript. Passepartout approached and read one of these notices, which stated that Elder William Hitch, Mormon missionary, taking advantage of his presence on train No. 48, would deliver a lecture on Mormonism in car No. 117, from eleven to twelve o’clock; and that he invited all who were desirous of being instructed concerning the mysteries of the religion of the “Latter Day Saints” to attend. “I’ll go,” said Passepartout to himself. He knew nothing of Mormonism except the custom of polygamy, which is its foundation. The news quickly spread through the train, which contained about one hundred passengers, thirty of whom, at most, attracted by the notice, ensconced themselves in car No. 117. Passepartout took one of the front seats. Neither Mr. Fogg nor Fix cared to attend. At the appointed hour Elder William Hitch rose, and, in an irritated voice, as if he had already been contradicted, said, “I tell you that Joe Smith is a martyr, that his brother Hiram is a martyr, and that the persecutions of the United States Government against the prophets will also make a martyr of Brigham Young. Who dares to say the contrary?” No one ventured to gainsay the missionary, whose excited tone contrasted curiously with his naturally calm visage. No doubt his anger arose from the hardships to which the Mormons were actually subjected. The government had just succeeded, with some difficulty, in reducing these independent fanatics to its rule. It had made itself master of Utah, and subjected that territory to the laws of the Union, after imprisoning Brigham Young on a charge of rebellion and polygamy. The disciples of the prophet had since redoubled their efforts, and resisted, by words at least, the authority of Congress. Elder Hitch, as is seen, was trying to make proselytes on the very railway trains. Then, emphasising his words with his loud voice and frequent gestures, he related the history of the Mormons from Biblical times: how that, in Israel, a Mormon prophet of the tribe of Joseph published the annals of the new religion, and bequeathed them to his son Mormon; how, many centuries later, a translation of this precious book, which was written in Egyptian, was made by Joseph Smith, junior, a Vermont farmer, who revealed himself as a mystical prophet in 1825; and how, in short, the celestial messenger appeared to him in an illuminated forest, and gave him the annals of the Lord. Several of the audience, not being much interested in the missionary’s narrative, here left the car; but Elder Hitch, continuing his lecture, related how Smith, junior, with his father, two brothers, and a few disciples, founded the church of the “Latter Day Saints,” which, adopted not only in America, but in England, Norway and Sweden, and Germany, counts many artisans, as well as men engaged in the liberal professions, among its members; how a colony was established in Ohio, a temple erected there at a cost of two hundred thousand dollars, and a town built at Kirkland; how Smith became an enterprising banker, and received from a simple mummy showman a papyrus scroll written by Abraham and several famous Egyptians. The Elder’s story became somewhat wearisome, and his audience grew gradually less, until it was reduced to twenty passengers. But this did not disconcert the enthusiast, who proceeded with the story of Joseph Smith’s bankruptcy in 1837, and how his ruined creditors gave him a coat of tar and feathers; his reappearance some years afterwards, more honourable and honoured than ever, at Independence, Missouri, the chief of a flourishing colony of three thousand disciples, and his pursuit thence by outraged Gentiles, and retirement into the Far West. Ten hearers only were now left, among them honest Passepartout, who was listening with all his ears. Thus he learned that, after long persecutions, Smith reappeared in Illinois, and in 1839 founded a community at Nauvoo, on the Mississippi, numbering twenty-five thousand souls, of which he became mayor, chief justice, and general-in-chief; that he announced himself, in 1843, as a candidate for the Presidency of the United States; and that finally, being drawn into ambuscade at Carthage, he was thrown into prison, and assassinated by a band of men disguised in masks. Passepartout was now the only person left in the car, and the Elder, looking him full in the face, reminded him that, two years after the assassination of Joseph Smith, the inspired prophet, Brigham Young, his successor, left Nauvoo for the banks of the Great Salt Lake, where, in the midst of that fertile region, directly on the route of the emigrants who crossed Utah on their way to California, the new colony, thanks to the polygamy practised by the Mormons, had flourished beyond expectations. “And this,” added Elder William Hitch, “this is why the jealousy of Congress has been aroused against us! Why have the soldiers of the Union invaded the soil of Utah? Why has Brigham Young, our chief, been imprisoned, in contempt of all justice? Shall we yield to force? Never! Driven from Vermont, driven from Illinois, driven from Ohio, driven from Missouri, driven from Utah, we shall yet find some independent territory on which to plant our tents. And you, my brother,” continued the Elder, fixing his angry eyes upon his single auditor, “will you not plant yours there, too, under the shadow of our flag?” “No!” replied Passepartout courageously, in his turn retiring from the car, and leaving the Elder to preach to vacancy. During the lecture the train had been making good progress, and towards half-past twelve it reached the northwest border of the Great Salt Lake. Thence the passengers could observe the vast extent of this interior sea, which is also called the Dead Sea, and into which flows an American Jordan. It is a picturesque expanse, framed in lofty crags in large strata, encrusted with white salt—a superb sheet of water, which was formerly of larger extent than now, its shores having encroached with the lapse of time, and thus at once reduced its breadth and increased its depth. The Salt Lake, seventy miles long and thirty-five wide, is situated three miles eight hundred feet above the sea. Quite different from Lake Asphaltite, whose depression is twelve hundred feet below the sea, it contains considerable salt, and one quarter of the weight of its water is solid matter, its specific weight being 1,170, and, after being distilled, 1,000. Fishes are, of course, unable to live in it, and those which descend through the Jordan, the Weber, and other streams soon perish. The country around the lake was well cultivated, for the Mormons are mostly farmers; while ranches and pens for domesticated animals, fields of wheat, corn, and other cereals, luxuriant prairies, hedges of wild rose, clumps of acacias and milk-wort, would have been seen six months later. Now the ground was covered with a thin powdering of snow. The train reached Ogden at two o’clock, where it rested for six hours, Mr. Fogg and his party had time to pay a visit to Salt Lake City, connected with Ogden by a branch road; and they spent two hours in this strikingly American town, built on the pattern of other cities of the Union, like a checker-board, “with the sombre sadness of right-angles,” as Victor Hugo expresses it. The founder of the City of the Saints could not escape from the taste for symmetry which distinguishes the Anglo-Saxons. In this strange country, where the people are certainly not up to the level of their institutions, everything is done “squarely”—cities, houses, and follies. The travellers, then, were promenading, at three o’clock, about the streets of the town built between the banks of the Jordan and the spurs of the Wahsatch Range. They saw few or no churches, but the prophet’s mansion, the court-house, and the arsenal, blue-brick houses with verandas and porches, surrounded by gardens bordered with acacias, palms, and locusts. A clay and pebble wall, built in 1853, surrounded the town; and in the principal street were the market and several hotels adorned with pavilions. The place did not seem thickly populated. The streets were almost deserted, except in the vicinity of the temple, which they only reached after having traversed several quarters surrounded by palisades. There were many women, which was easily accounted for by the “peculiar institution” of the Mormons; but it must not be supposed that all the Mormons are polygamists. They are free to marry or not, as they please; but it is worth noting that it is mainly the female citizens of Utah who are anxious to marry, as, according to the Mormon religion, maiden ladies are not admitted to the possession of its highest joys. These poor creatures seemed to be neither well off nor happy. Some—the more well-to-do, no doubt—wore short, open, black silk dresses, under a hood or modest shawl; others were habited in Indian fashion. Passepartout could not behold without a certain fright these women, charged, in groups, with conferring happiness on a single Mormon. His common sense pitied, above all, the husband. It seemed to him a terrible thing to have to guide so many wives at once across the vicissitudes of life, and to conduct them, as it were, in a body to the Mormon paradise with the prospect of seeing them in the company of the glorious Smith, who doubtless was the chief ornament of that delightful place, to all eternity. He felt decidedly repelled from such a vocation, and he imagined—perhaps he was mistaken—that the fair ones of Salt Lake City cast rather alarming glances on his person. Happily, his stay there was but brief. At four the party found themselves again at the station, took their places in the train, and the whistle sounded for starting. Just at the moment, however, that the locomotive wheels began to move, cries of “Stop! stop!” were heard. Trains, like time and tide, stop for no one. The gentleman who uttered the cries was evidently a belated Mormon. He was breathless with running. Happily for him, the station had neither gates nor barriers. He rushed along the track, jumped on the rear platform of the train, and fell, exhausted, into one of the seats. Passepartout, who had been anxiously watching this amateur gymnast, approached him with lively interest, and learned that he had taken flight after an unpleasant domestic scene. When the Mormon had recovered his breath, Passepartout ventured to ask him politely how many wives he had; for, from the manner in which he had decamped, it might be thought that he had twenty at least. “One, sir,” replied the Mormon, raising his arms heavenward —“one, and that was enough!”


Type:Social
👁 :
THE DOOMSDAY CONSPIRACY by Sidney Sheldon
Catagory:Fiction
Author:
Posted Date:11/02/2024
Posted By:utopia online

Day One Monday, October 15 Bellamy was back in the crowded hospital ward at Cu Chi Base in Vietnam and Susan was leaning over his bed, lovely in her crisp white nurse's uniform, whispering, "Wake up, sailor. You don't want to die." And when he heard the magic of her voice, he could almost forget his pain. She was murmuring something else in his ear, but a loud bell was ringing, and he could not hear her clearly. He reached up to pull her closer, and his hands clutched empty air. It was the sound of the telephone that fully awoke Robert Bellamy. He opened his eyes reluctantly, not wanting to let go of the dream. The telephone at his bedside was insistent. He looked at the clock. Four A.M. He snatched up the instrument, angry at having his dream interrupted. "Do you know what the hell time it is?" "Commander Bellamy?" A deep, male voice. "Yes" "I have a message for you, Commander. You are ordered to report to General Hilliard at National Security Agency headquarters at Fort Meade at oh six hundred this morning. Is the message understood, Commander?" "Yes." And no. Mostly no. Commander Robert Bellamy slowly replaced the receiver, puzzled. What the devil could the NSA want with him? He was assigned to ONI, the Office of Naval Intelligence. And what could be urgent enough to call for a meeting at six o'clock in the morning? He lay down again and closed his eyes, trying to recapture the dream. It had been so real. He knew, of course, what had triggered it. Susan had telephoned the evening before. "Robert..." The sound of her voice did to him what it always did. He took a shaky breath. "Hello, Susan." "Are you all right, Robert?" "Sure. Fantastic. How's Moneybags?" "Please, don't." "All right. How's Monte Banks?" He could not bring himself to say "your husband." He was her husband. "He's fine. I just wanted to tell you that we're going to be away for a little while. I didn't want you to worry." That was so like her, so Susan. He fought to keep his voice steady. "Where are you going this time?" "We're flying to Brazil." On Moneybags's private 727. "Monte has some business interests there." "Really? I thought he owned the country." "Stop it, Robert. Please." "Sorry." There was a pause. "I wish you sounded better." "If you were here, I would." "I want you to find someone wonderful and be happy." "I did find someone wonderful, Susan." The damned lump in his throat made it difficult for him to speak. "And do you know what happened? I lost her." "If you're going to do this, I won't call you again." He was filled with sudden panic. "Don't say that. Please." She was his lifeline. He could not bear the thought of never speaking to her again. He tried to sound cheerful. "I'm going to go out and find some luscious blonde and screw us both to death." "I want you to find someone." "I promise." "I'm concerned about you, darling." "No need. I'm really fine." He almost gagged on his lie. If she only knew the truth. But it was nothing he could bring himself to discuss with anyone. Especially Susan. He could not bear the thought of her pity. "I'll telephone you from Brazil," Susan said. There was a long silence. They could not let go of each other because there was too much to say, too many things that were better left unsaid, that had to be left unsaid. "I have to go now, Robert." "Susan?" "Yes?" "I love you, baby. I always will." "I know. I love you too, Robert." And that was the bittersweet irony of it. They still loved each other so much. You two have the perfect marriage, all their friends used to say. What had gone wrong? Commander Robert Bellamy got out of bed and walked through the silent living room in his bare feet. The room screamed out Susan's absence. There were dozens of photographs of Susan and himself scattered around, frozen moments in time. The two of them fishing in the Highlands of Scotland, standing in front of a Buddha near a That hlong, riding a carriage in the rain through the Borghese gardens in Rome. And in each picture, they were smiling and hugging, two people wildly in love. He went into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. The kitchen clock read 4:15 A.M. He hesitated a moment, then dialed a number. There were six rings, and finally he heard Admiral Whittaker's voice at the other end of the line. "Hello." "Admiral" "Yes?" "It's Robert. I'm terribly sorry to wake you, sir. I just had a rather strange phone call from the National Security Agency." "The NSA? What did they want?" "I don't know. I've been ordered to report to General Hilliard at oh six hundred." There was a thoughtful silence. "Perhaps you're being transferred there." "I can't be. It doesn't make sense. Why would they?" "It's obviously something urgent, Robert. Why don't you give me a call after the meeting?" "I will. Thank you." The connection was broken. I shouldn't have bothered the old man, Robert thought. The admiral had retired as head of Naval Intelligence two years earlier. Forced to retire, was more like it. The rumor was that as a sop, the Navy had given him a little office somewhere and put him to work counting barnacles on the mothball fleet, or some such shit. The admiral would have no idea about current intelligence activities. But he was Robert's mentor. He was closer to Robert than anyone in the world, except, of course, Susan. And Robert had needed to talk to someone. With Susan gone, he felt as though he were living in a time warp. He fantasized that somewhere, in another dimension of time and space, he and Susan were still happily married, laughing and carefree and loving. Or maybe not, Robert thought wearily. Maybe I just don't know when to let go. The coffee was ready. It tasted bitter. He wondered whether the beans came from Brazil. He carried the coffee cup into the bathroom and studied his image in the mirror. He was looking at a man in his early forties, tall and lean and physically fit with a craggy face, a strong chin, black hair, and intelligent, probing dark eyes. There was a long, deep scar on his chest, a souvenir from the plane crash. But that was yesterday. That was Susan. This was today. Without Susan. He shaved and showered and walked over to his clothes closet. What do I wear, he wondered, Navy uniform or civilian clothes? And on the other hand, who gives a damn? He put on a charcoal gray suit, a white shirt, and a gray silk tie. He knew very little about the National Security Agency, only that the Puzzle Palace, as it was nicknamed, superseded all other American intelligence agencies and was the most secretive of them all. What do they want with me? I'll soon find out. The National Security Agency is hidden discreetly away on eighty-two rambling acres at Fort Meade, Maryland, in two buildings that together are twice the size of the CIA complex in Langley, Virginia. The agency, created to give technical support to protect United States communications and acquire worldwide electronic intelligence data, employs thousands of people, and so much information is generated by its operations that it shreds more than forty tons of documents every day. It was still dark when Commander Robert Bellamy arrived at the first gate. He drove up to an eight-foot-high Cyclone fence with a topping of barbed wire. There was a sentry booth there, manned by two armed guards. One of them stayed in the booth watching as the other approached the car. "Can I help you?" "Commander Bellamy to see General Hilliard." "May I see your identification, Commander?" Robert Bellamy pulled out his wallet and removed his 17th District Naval Intelligence ID card. The guard studied it carefully and returned it. "Thank you, Commander." He nodded to the guard in the booth, and the gate swung open. The guard inside picked up a telephone. "Commander Bellamy is on his way." A minute later, Robert Bellamy drove up to a closed, electrified gate. An armed guard approached the car. "Commander Bellamy?" "Yes." "May I see your identification, please?" He started to protest and then he thought, What the hell. It's their zoo. He took out his wallet again and showed his identification to the guard. "Thank you, Commander." The guard gave some invisible sign, and the gate opened. As Robert Bellamy drove ahead, he saw a third Cyclone fence ahead of him. My God, he thought, I'm in the Land of Oz. Another uniformed guard walked up to the car. As Robert Bellamy reached for his wallet, the guard looked at the license plate and said* "Please drive straight ahead to the administration building, Commander. There will be someone there to meet you." "Thank you." The gate swung open, and Robert followed the driveway up to an enormous white building. A man in civilian clothes was standing outside waiting, shivering in the chill October air. "You can leave your car right there, Commander," he called out. "We'll take care of it." Robert Bellamy left the keys in his car and stepped out. The man greeting him appeared to be in his thirties, tall, thin, and sallow. He looked as though he had not seen the sun in years. "I'm Harriso_ Keller. I'll escort you to General Hilliard's office." They walked into a large high-ceilinged entrance hall. A man in civilian clothes was seated behind a desk. "Commander Bellamy-" Robert Bellamy swung around. He heard the click of a camera. "Thank you, sir." Robert Bellamy turned to Keller. "What-?" "This will take only a minute," Harrison Keller assured him. Sixty seconds later, Robert Bellamy was handed a blue and white identification badge with his photograph on it. "Please wear this at all times while you're in the building, Commander." "Right." They started walking down a long, white corridor. Robert Bellamy noticed security cameras mounted at twenty-foot intervals on both sides of the hall. "How big is this building?" "just over two million square feet, Commander." '~at?" "Yes. This corridor is the longest corridor in the world-nine hundred and eighty feet. We're completely self-contained here. We have a shopping center, cafeteria, post exchange, eight snack bars, a hospital, complete with an operating room, a dentist's office, a branch of the State Bank of Laurel, a dry-cleaning shop, a shoe shop, a barbershop, and a few other odds and ends." It's a home away from home, Robert thought. He found it oddly depressing. They passed an enormous open area filled with a vast sea of computers. Robert stopped in amazement. "Impressive, isn't it? That's just one of our computer rooms. The complex contains three billion dollars' worth of decoding machines and computers." "How many people work in this place?" "About sixteen thousand." So what the hell do they need me for? Robert Bellamy wondered. He was led into a private elevator that Keller operated with a key. They went up one floor and started on another trek down a long corridor until they reached a suite of offices at the end of the hall. "Right in here, Commander." They entered a large reception office with four secretaries' desks. Two of the secretaries had already arrived for work. Harrison Keller nodded to one of them, and she pressed a button, and a door to the inner office clicked open. "Go right in, please, gentlemen. The general is expecting you." Harrison Keller said, "This way." Robert Bellamy followed him into the inner sanctum. He found himself in a spacious office, the ceilings and walls heavily soundproofed. The room was comfortably furnished, filled with photographs and personal mementos. It was obvious that the man behind the desk spent a lot of time there. General Mark Hilliard, deputy director of the NSA, appeared to be in his middle fifties, very tall, with a face carved in flint, icy, steely eyes, and a ramrod-straight posture. The general was dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, and gray tie. I guessed right, Robert thought. Harrison Keller said, "General Hilliard, this is Commander Bellamy." "Thank you for dropping by, Commander." As though it was an invitation to some tea party. The two men shook hands. "Sit down. I'll bet you could do with a cup of coffee." The man was a mind reader. "Yes, sir." "Harrison?" "No, thank you." He took a chair in the corner. A buzzer was pressed, the door opened, and an Oriental in a mess jacket entered with a tray of coffee and Danish pastry. Robert noted that he was not wearing an identification badge. Shame. The coffee was poured. It smelled wonderful. "How do you take yours?" General Hilliard asked. "Black, please." The coffee tasted great. The two men were seated facing each other in soft leather chairs. "The director asked that I meet with you." The director. Edward Sanderson. A legend in espionage circles. A brilliant, ruthless puppet master, credited with masterminding dozens of daring coups all over the world. A man seldom seen in public and whispered about in private. "How long have you been with the 17th District Naval Intelligence Group, Commander?" General Hilliard asked. Robert played it straight. "Fifteen years." He would have bet a month's pay that the general could have told him the time of day when he had joined ONI. "Before that, I believe you commanded a naval air squadron in Vietnam." "Yes, sir." "You were shot down. They didn't expect you to pull through." The doctor was saying, "Forget about him. He won't make it." He had wanted to die. The pain was unbearable. And then Susan was leaning over him. "Open your eyes, sailor, you don't want to die." He had forced his eyes open and through the haze of pain was staring at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She had a soft oval face and thick black hair, sparkling brown eyes and a smile like a blessing. He had tried to speak, but it was too much of an effort. General Hilliard was saying something. Robert Bellamy brought his mind back to the present. "I beg your pardon, General?" "We have a problem, Commander. We need your help." "Yes, sir?" The general stood up and began to pace. "What I'm about to tell you is extremely sensitive. It's above top secret." "Yes, sir." "Yesterday, in the Swiss Alps, a NATO weather balloon crashed. There were some experimental military objects aboard the balloon that are highly secret." Robert found himself wondering where all this was leading. "The Swiss government has removed those objects from the balloon, but unfortunately, it seems that there Were some witnesses to the crash. It is of vital importance that none of them talk to anyone about what they saw. It could provide valuable information to certain other countries. Do you follow me?" "I think so, sir. You want me to speak to the witnesses and warn them not to discuss what they saw." "Not exactly, Commander." "Then I don't under-" "What I want you to do is simply track down those witnesses. Others will talk to them about the necessity for silence." "I see. Are the witnesses all in Switzerland?" General Hilliard stopped in front of Robert. "That's our problem, Commander. You see, we have no idea where they are. Or who they are." Robert thought he had missed something. "I beg your pardon?" "The only information we have is that the witnesses were on a tour bus. They happened to be passing the scene when the weather balloon crashed near a little village called..." He turned to Harrison Keller. "Uetendorf." The general turned back to Robert. "The passengers got off the bus for a few minutes to look at the crash and then continued on. When the tour ended, the passengers dispersed." Robert said slowly, "General Hilliard, are you saying that there is no record of who these people are or where they went?" "That is correct." "And you want me to go over and find them?" "Exactly. You've been very highly recommended. I'm told that you speak half a dozen languages fluently, and you have an excellent field record. The director arranged to have you temporarily transferred to the NSA." Terrific. "I assume I'll be working with the Swiss government on this?" "No, you'll be working alone." "Alone? But-" "We must not involve anyone else in this mission. I can't stress enough the importance of what was in that balloon, Commander. Time is of the essence. I want you to report your progress to me every day." The general wrote a number on a card and handed it to Robert. "I can be reached through this number day or night. There's a plane waiting to fly you to Zurich. You'll be escorted to your apartment, so you can pack what you need, and then you'll be taken to the airport." So much for "Thank you for dropping by." Robert was tempted to ask "Will someone feed my goldfish while I'm gone?" but he had a feeling the answer would be "You have no goldfish." "In your work with ONI, Commander, I assume you've acquired intelligence contacts abroad?" "Yes, sir. I have quite a few friends who could be of use "You're not to get in touch with any of them. You are not authorized to make any contacts at all. The witnesses you're looking for are undoubtedly nationals of various countries." The general turned to Keller. "Harrison-" Keller walked over to a filing cabinet in the corner and unlocked it. He removed a large manila envelope and passed it to Robert. "There's fifty thousand dollars in here in different European currencies and another twenty thousand in U.S. dollars. You will also find several sets of false identifications that may come in handy." General Hilliard held out a thick, shiny black plastic card with a white stripe on it. "Here's a credit card that-" "I doubt if I'll need that, General. The cash will be enough, and I have an ONI credit card." "Take it." "Very well." Robert examined the card. It was drawn on a bank he had never heard of. At the bottom of the card was a telephone number. "There's no name on the card," Robert said. "It's the equivalent of a blank check. It requires no identification. Just have them call the telephone number on the card when you make a purchase. It's very important that you keep it with you at all times." "Right." "And Commander?" "Sir?" "You must find those witnesses. Every one of them. I'll inform the director that you have started the assignment." The meeting was over. Harrison Keller walked Robert to the outer office. A uniformed marine was seated there. He rose as the two men came in. "This is Captain Dougherty. He'll take you to the airport. Good luck." "Thanks." The two men shook hands. Keller turned and walked back into General Hilliard's office. "Are you ready, Commander?" Captain Dougherty asked. "Yes." But ready for what? He had handled difficult intelligence assignments in the past, but never anything as crazy as this. He was expected to track down an unknown number of unknown witnesses from unknown countries. What are the odds against that? Robert wondered. I feel like the White Queen in Through the Looking Glass. "Why sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast." Well, this was all six of them. "I have orders to take you directly to your apartment and then to Andrews Air Force Base," Captain Dougherty said. "There's a plane waiting to-" Robert shook his head. "I have to make a stop at my office first." Dougherty hesitated. "Very well. I'll go there with you and wait for you." It was as if they didn't trust him out of their sight. Because he knew that a weather balloon had crashed? It made no sense. He surrendered his badge at the reception desk and walked outside, into the chill, breaking dawn. His car was gone. In its place was a stretch limousine. "Your car will be taken care of, Commander," Captain Dougherty informed him. "We'll ride in this." There was a high-handedness about all this that Robert found vaguely disturbing. "Fine," he said. And they were on their way to Naval Intelligence. The pale morning sun was disappearing behind rain clouds. It was going to be a miserable day. In more ways than one, Robert thought. Ottawa, Canada 2400 Hours His code name was janus. He was addressing twelve men in the heavily guarded room of a military compound. "As you have all been informed, Operation Doomsday has been activated. There are a number of witnesses who must be found as quickly and as quietly as possible. We are not able to attempt to track them down through regular security channels because of the danger of a leak." "Who are we using?" The Russian. Huge. Shorttempered. "His name is Commander Robert Bellamy." "How was he selected?" The German. Aristocratic. Ruthless. "The commander was chosen after a thorough computer search of the files of the CIA, FBI, and a half dozen other security agencies." "Please, may I inquire what are his qualifications?" The Japanese. Polite. Sly. "Commander Bellamy is an experienced field officer who speaks six languages fluently and has an exemplary record. Again and again he has proved himself to be very resourceful. He has no living relatives." "Is he aware of the urgency of this?" The Englishman. Snobbish. Dangerous. "He is. We have every expectation that he will be able to locate all the witnesses very quickly." "Does he understand the purpose of his mission?" The Frenchman. Argumentative. Stubborn. "No." "And when he has found the witnesses?" The Chinese. Clever. Patient. "He will be suitably rewarded." The headquarters of the Office of Naval Intelligence occupies the entire fifth floor of the sprawling Pentagon, an enclave in the middle of the largest office building in the world, with seventeen miles of corridors and twenty-nine thousand military and civilian employees. The interior of the Office of Naval Intelligence reflects its seagoing traditions. The desks and file cabinets are either olive green, from the World War II era, or battleship gray, from the Vietnam era. The walls and ceilings are painted a buff or cream color. In the beginning, Robert had been put off by the Spartan decor, but he had long since grown accustomed to it. Now, as he walked into the building and approached the reception desk, the familiar guard at the desk said, "Good morning, Commander. May I see your pass?" Robert had been working here for seven years, but the ritual never changed. He dutifully displayed his pass. "Thank you, Commander." On his way to his office, Robert thought about Captain Dougherty, waiting for him in the parking lot at the river entrance. Waiting to escort him to the plane that would fly him to Switzerland to begin an impossible hunt. When Robert reached his office, his secretary, Barbara, was already there. "Good morning, Commander. The deputy director would like to see you in his office." "He can wait. Get me Admiral Whittaker, please." "Yes, sir." A minute later Robert was speaking with the admiral. "I presume you have finished your meeting, Robert?" "A few minutes ago." "How did it go?" "It was-interesting. Are you free to join me for breakfast, Admiral?" He tried to keep his voice casual. There was no hesitation. "Yes. Shall we meet there?" "Fine. I'll leave a visitors' pass for you. "Very well. I'll see you in an hour." Robert replaced the receiver and thought, It's ironic that I have to leave a visitors' pass for the admiral. A few years ago, he was the fair-haired boy here, in charge of Naval Intelligence. How must he feel? Robert buzzed his secretary on the intercom. "Yes, Commander?" "I'm expecting Admiral Whittaker. Arrange a pass for him." "I'll take care of it right away." It was time to report to the deputy director. Dustin fucking Thornton. D ustin "Dusty" Thornton, deputy director of the Office of Naval Intelligence, had won his fame as one of the greatest athletes ever to come out of Annapolis. Thornton owed his present exalted position to a football game. An Army-Navy game, to be precise. Thornton, a towering monolith of a man, had played fullback as a senior at Annapolis in Navy's most important game of the year. At the beginning of the fourth quarter, with Army leading 13-0, two touchdowns and a conversion ahead, destiny stepped in and changed Dustin Thornton's life. Thornton intercepted an Army pass, pivoted around, and charged through the Army phalanx for a touchdown. Navy missed on the extra point but soon scored a field goal. After the ensuing kickoff, Army failed to make a first down and punted into Navy territory. The score stood at Army 13, Navy 9, and the clock was running. When play resumed, the ball was passed to Thornton, and he went down under a heap of Army uniforms. It took him a long time to get to his feet. A doctor came running out onto the field. Thornton angrily waved him away. With seconds left to play, signals were called for a lateral pass. Thornton caught it on his own ten yard line and took off. He was unstoppable. He charged through the opposition like a tank, knocking down everyone unlucky enough to get in his way. With two seconds to go, Thornton crossed the goal line for the winning touchdown, and Navy scored its first victory against Army in four years. That, in itself, would have had little effect on Thornton's life. What made the event significant was that seated in a box reserved for VIPs were Willard Stone and his daughter, Eleanor. As the crowd rose to its feet, wildly cheering the Navy hero, Eleanor turned to her father and said quietly, "I want to meet him." Eleanor Stone was a woman of large appetites. Plainfaced, she had a voluptuous body and an insatiable libido. Watching Dustin Thornton savagely plow his way down the football field, she fantasized what he would be like in bed. If his manhood was as big as the rest of his body... She was not disappointed. Six months later, Eleanor and Dustin Thornton were married. That was the beginning. Dustin Thornton went to work for his father-in-law and was inducted into an arcane world he had not dreamed existed. Willard Stone, Thornton's new father-in-law, was a man of mystery. A billionaire with powerful political connections and a past shrouded in secrecy, he was a shadowy figure who pulled strings in capitals all over the world. He was in his late sixties, a meticulous man whose every movement was precise and methodical. He had razorsharp features and hooded eyes that revealed nothing. Willard Stone believed in wasting neither words nor emotions, and he was ruthless in obtaining what he wanted. The rumors about him were fascinating. He was reported to have murdered a competitor in Malaysia and to have had a torrid affair with the favorite wife of an emir. He was said to have backed a successful revolution in Nigeria. The government had brought half a dozen indictments against him, but they were always mysteriously dropped. There were tales of bribes, and senators suborned, business secrets stolen, and witnesses who disappeared. Stone was an adviser to presidents and kings. He was raw, naked power. Among his many properties was a large, isolated estate in the Colorado mountains where every year scientists, captains of industry, and world leaders gathered for seminars. Armed guards kept out unwanted visitors. Willard Stone had not only approved his daughter's marriage, he had encouraged it. His new son-in-law was brilliant, ambitious, and, most important, malleable. Twelve years after the marriage, Stone arranged for Dustin to be appointed ambassador to South Korea. Several years later, the President appointed him ambassador to the United Nations. When Admiral Ralph Whittaker was suddenly ousted as acting director of ONI, Thornton took his place. That day Willard Stone sent for his son-in-law. "This is merely the beginning," Stone promised. "I have bigger plans for you, Dustin. Great plans." And he had proceeded to outline them. Two years earlier, Robert had had his first meeting with the new acting director of ONI. "Sit down, Commander." There was no cordiality in Dustin Thornton's voice. "I see by your record that you're something of a maverick." What the hell does he mean? Robert wondered. He decided to keep his mouth shut. Thornton looked up. "I don't know how Admiral Whittaker ran this office when he was in charge, but from now on we're doing everything by the book. I expect my orders to be carried out to the letter. Do I make myself clear?" Jesus, Robert thought, what the hell are we in for here? "Do I make myself clear, Commander?" "Yes. You expect your orders to be carried out to the letter." He wondered whether he was expected to salute. "That's all." But it was not all. A month later, Robert was sent to East Germany to bring in a scientist who wanted to defect. It was a dangerous assignment because Stasi, the East German secret police, had learned about the proposed defection and was watching the scientist closely. In spite of that, Robert had managed to smuggle the man across the border, to a safe house. He was making arrangements to bring him to Washington when he received a call from Dustin Thornton telling him that the situation had changed and that he was to drop the assignment. "We can't just dump him here," Robert had protested. "They'll kill him." "That's his problem," Thornton had replied. "Your orders are to come back home." Screw you, Robert thought. I'm not going to abandon him. He had called a friend of his in M16, British Intelligence, and explained the situation. "If he goes back to East Germany," Robert said, "they'll chop him. Will you take him?" "I'll see what can be done, old chap. Bring him along." And the scientist had been given haven in England. Dustin Thornton never forgave Robert for disobeying his instructions. From that point on, there was open animosity between the two men. Thornton had discussed the incident with his father-in-law. "Loose cannons like Bellamy are dangerous," Willard Stone warned. "They're a security hazard. Men like that are expendable. Remember that." And Thornton had remembered. Now, walking down the corridor toward Dustin Thornton's office, Robert could not help thinking about the difference between Thornton and Whittaker. In a job like his, trust was the sine qua non. He did not trust Dustin Thornton. Thornton was seated behind his desk when Robert walked into his office. "You wanted to see me?" "Yes. Sit down, Commander." Their relationship had never reached the "Robert" phase. "I've been told you've been temporarily transferred to the National Security Agency. When you come back, I have a-" "I'm not coming back. This is my last assignment." "What?" "I'm quitting." Thinking about it later, Robert was not sure exactly what reaction he had expected. Some kind of scene. Dustin Thornton could have shown surprise, or he could have argued, or been angry, or relieved. Instead, he had merely looked at Robert and nodded. "That's it then, isn't it?" When Robert returned to his own office, he said to his secretary, "I'm going to be away for a while. I'll be leaving in about an hour." "Is there some place where you can be reached?" Robert remembered General Hilliard's orders. "No." "There are some meetings you-" "Cancel them." He looked at his watch. It was time to meet Admiral Whittaker. They had breakfast in the center yard of the Pentagon at the Ground Zero Cafe, so named because it was once thought that the Pentagon was where the first nuclearbomb attack against the United States would take place. Robert had arranged for a corner table where they would have a degree of privacy. Admiral Whittaker was punctual, and as Robert watched him approach the table, it seemed to him that the admiral looked older and smaller, as though semiretirement had somehow aged and shrunk him. He was still a striking-looking man with strong features, a Roman nose, good cheekbones, and a crown of silvered hair. Robert had served under the admiral in Vietnam and later in the Office of Naval Intelligence, and he had a high regard for him. More than a high regard, Robert admitted to himself. Admiral Whittaker was his surrogate father. The admiral sat down. "Good morning, Robert. Well, did they transfer you to the NSA?" Robert nodded. "Temporarily." The waitress arrived, and the two men studied the menu. "I had forgotten how bad the food here was," Admiral Whittaker said, smiling. He looked around the room, his face reflecting an unspoken nostalgia. He wishes he were back here, Robert thought. Amen. They ordered. When the waitress was out of earshot, Robert said, "Admiral, General Hilliard is sending me on an urgent three-thousand-mile trip to locate some witnesses who saw a weather balloon crash. I find that strange. And there's something else that's even stranger. 'Time is of the essence,' to quote the general, but I've been ordered not to use any of my intelligence contacts abroad to help me." Admiral Whittaker looked puzzled. "I suppose the general must have his reasons." Robert said, "I can't imagine what they are." Admiral Whittaker studied Robert. Commander Bellamy had served under him in Vietnam and had been the best pilot in the squadron. The admiral's son, Edward, had been Robert's bombardier, and on the terrible day their plane had been shot down, Edward had been killed. Robert had barely survived. The admiral had gone to the hospital to visit him. "He's not going to make it," the doctors had told him. Robert, lying there in agonizing pain, had whispered, "I'm sorry about Edward. I'm so sorry." Admiral Whittaker had squeezed Robert's hand. "I know you did everything you could. You've got to get well, now. You're going to be fine." He wanted desperately for Robert to live. In the admiral's mind, Robert was his son, the son who would take Edward's place. And Robert had pulled through. "Robert" "Yes, Admiral?" "I hope your mission to Switzerland is successful." "So do I. It's my last one." "You're still determined to quit?" The admiral was the only one Robert had confided in. "I've had enough." "Thornton?" "It's not just him. It's me. I'm tired of interfering with other people's lives." I'm tired of the lies and the cheating, and the broken promises that were never meant to be kept. I'm tired of manipulating people and of being manipulated. I'm tired of the games and the danger and the betrayals. It's cost me everything I ever gave a damn about. "Do you have any idea what you're going to do?" "I'll try to find something~useful to do with my life, something positive." "What if they won't let you go?" Robert said, "They have no choice, have they?" The limousine was waiting at the river-entrance parking lot. "Are you ready, Commander?" Captain Dougherty asked. As ready as I'll ever be, Robert thought. "Yes." Captain Dougherty accompanied Robert to his apartment so he could pack. Robert had no idea how many days he would be gone. How long does an impossible assignment take? He packed enough clothes for a week and, at the last minute, put in a framed photograph of Susan. He stared at it for a long time and wondered if she were enjoying herself in Brazil. He thought, I hope not. I hope she's having a lousy time. And was immediately ashamed of himself. When the limousine arrived at Andrews Air Force Base, the plane was waiting. It was a C20A, an Air Force jet. Captain Dougherty held out his hand. "Good luck, Commander." "Thanks." I'll need it. Robert walked up the steps to the cabin. The crew was inside finishing the preflight check. There was a pilot, a copilot, a navigator, and a steward, all in Air Force uniforms. Robert was familiar with the plane. It was loaded with electronic equipment. On the outside near the tail was a high-frequency antenna that looked like an enormous fishing pole. Inside the cabin were twelve red telephones on the walls and a white, unsecured phone. Radio transmissions were in code, and the plane's radar was on a military frequency. The primary color inside was air force blue, and the cabin was furnished with comfortable club chairs. Robert found that he was the only passenger. The pilot greeted him. "Welcome aboard, Commander. If you'll put on your seat belt, we have clearance to take off" Robert strapped himself in and leaned back in his seat as the plane taxied down the runway. A minute later, he felt the familiar pull of gravity as the jet screamed into the air. He had not piloted a plane since his crash, when he had been told he would never be able to fly again. Fly again, hell, Robert thought, they said I wouldn't live. It was a miracleNo, it was Susan. ... Vietnam. He had been sent there with the rank of lieutenant commander, stationed on the aircraft carrier Ranger as a tactics officer, responsible for training fighter pilots and planning attack strategy. He had led a bomber squadron of A-6A Intruders, and there was very little time away from the pressures of battle. One of the few leaves he had was in Bangkok for a week of R and R, and during that time he never bothered to sleep. The city was a Disneyland designed for the pleasure of the male animal. He had met an exquisite That girl his first hour in town, and she had stayed at his side the whole time and taught him a few That phrases. He had found the language soft and mellifluous. Good morning. Arun sawasdi. Where are you from? Khun na chak nai? Where are you going now? Khun kamrant chain pai? She taught him other phrases too, but she would not tell him what they meant, and when he said them, she giggled. When Robert returned to the Ranger, Bangkok seemed like a faraway dream. The war was the reality and it was a horror. Someone showed him one of the leaflets the marines dropped over North Vietnam. It read: Dear Citizens: The U.S. Marines are fighting alongside South Vietnamese forces in Duc Pho in order to give the Vietnamese people a chance to live a free, happy life, without fear of hunger and suffering. But many Vietnamese have paid with their lives, and their homes have been destroyed because they helped the Vietcong. The hamlets of Hai Mon, Hai Tan, 5a Binh, Ta Binh, and many others have been destroyed because of this. We will not hesitate to destroy every hamlet that helps the Vietcong, who are powerless to stop the combined might of the GVN and its allies. The choice is yours. If you refuse to let the Vietcong use your villages and hamlets as their battlefield, your homes and your lives will be saved. We're saving the poor bastards, all right. Robert thought grimly. And all we're destroying is their country. The aircraft carrier Ranger was equipped with all the state-of-the-art technology that could be crammed into it. The ship was home base for 16 aircraft, 40 officers, and 350 enlisted men. Flight schedules were handed out three or four hours before the first launch of the day. In the mission planning section of the ship's intelligence center, the latest information and reconnaissance photos were given to the bombardiers, who then planned their flight patterns. "Jesus, they gave us a beauty this morning," said Edward Whittaker, Robert's bombardier. Edward Whittaker looked like a younger version of his father, but he had a completely different personality. Where the admiral was a formidable figure, dignified and austere, his son was down-to-earth, warm and friendly. He had earned his place as "just one of the boys." The other airmen forgave him for being the son of their commander. He was the best bombardier in the squadron, and he and Robert had become fast friends. "Where are we heading?" Robert asked. "For our sins, we've drawn Package Six." It was the most dangerous mission of all. It meant flying north to Hanoi, Haiphong, and up the Red River delta, where the flak was heaviest. There was a catch-22: They were not permitted to bomb any strategic targets if there were civilians nearby, and the North Vietnamese, not being stupid, immediately placed civilians around all their military installations. There was a lot of grumbling in the allied military, but President Lyndon Johnson, safely back in Washington, was giving the orders. The twelve years that United States troops fought in Vietnam were the longest period it has ever been at war. Robert Bellamy had come into it late in 1972, when the Navy was having major problems. Their F-4 squadrons were being destroyed. In spite of the fact that their planes were superior to the Russian MiG's, the U.S. Navy was losing one F-4 for every two MiG's shot down. It was an unacceptable ratio. Robert was summoned to the headquarters of Admiral Ralph Whittaker. "You sent for me, Admiral?" "You have the reputation of being a hotshot pilot, Commander. I need your help." "Yes, sir?" "We're getting murdered by the goddamned enemy. I have had a thorough analysis made. There's nothing wrong with our planes-it's the training of the men who are flying them. Do you understand?" "Yes, sir." "I want you to pick a group and retrain it in maneuvers and weapons employment. - The new group was called Top Gun, and before they were through, the ratio changed from two to one to twelve to one. For every two F-4's lost, twenty-four MiG's were shot down. The assignment had taken eight weeks of intensive training, and Commander Bellamy had finally returned to his ship. Admiral Whittaker was there to greet him. "That was a damned fine job, Commander." "Thank you, Admiral." "Now, let's get back to work." "I'm ready, sir." Robert had flown thirty-four bombing missions from the Ranger without incident. His thirty-fifth mission was Package Six. They .had passed Hanoi and were heading northwest toward Phu Tho and Yen Bai. The flak was getting increasingly heavy. Edward Whittaker was seated on Robert's right, staring at the radar screen, listening to the ominous bass tones of enemy search radars sweeping the sky. The sky directly ahead of them looked like the Fourth of July, streaked with white smoke from the light guns below, dark gray bursts from the fifty-five-millimeter shells, black clouds from the hundred-millimeter shells, and colored tracer bullets from heavy machine-gun fire. "We're approaching target," Edward said. His voice through the headphones sounded eerily far away. "Roger." The A-6A Intruder was flying at 450 knots, and at that speed, even with the drag and weight of the bomb load, it handled remarkably well, moving too fast for enemies to track it. Robert reached out and turned on the master armament switch. The dozen 500-pound bombs were now ready to be released. He was headed straight for the target. A voice on his radio said, "Rome-you have a bogey at four o'clock high." Robert turned to look. A MiG was hurtling toward him, coming out of the sun. Robert banked and sent the plane into a steep dive. The MiG was on his tail. It loosed a missile. Robert checked his instrument panel. The missile was closing in rapidly. A thousand feet away ... sIx hundred ... four hundred "Holy shit!" Edward yelled. "What are we waiting for?" Robert waited until the last second, then released a stream of metal chaff and went into a steep climbing turn, leaving the missile to follow the chaff and crash harmlessly into the ground below. "Thank you, God," Edward said. "And you, pal." Robert continued the climb and swung behind the MiG. The pilot started to take evasive action, but it was too late. Robert loosed a Sidewinder missile and watched it crawl up the tail pipe of the MiG and explode. An instant later, the sky was showered with pieces of metal. A voice came over the intercom. "Nice work, Romeo." The plane was over the target now. "Here we go," Edward said. He pressed the red button that released the bombs and watched them tumble down toward their target. Mission accomplished. Robert headed the plane back toward the carrier. At that instant, they felt a heavy thud. The swift and graceful bomber suddenly became sluggish. "We've been hit!" Edward called. Both fire-warning lights were flashing red. The plane was moving erratically, out of control. A voice came over the radio. "Romeo, this is Tiger. Do you want us to cover you?" Robert made a split-second decision. "No, go on to your targets. I'm going to try to make it back to base." The plane had slowed down and was becoming more difficult to handle. "Faster," Edward said nervously, "or we're going to be late for lunch." Robert looked at the altimeter. The needle was dropping rapidly. He activated his radio mike. "Romeo to home base. We've taken a hit." "Home base to Romeo. How bad is it?" "I'm not sure. I think I can bring it home." "Hold on." A moment later the voice returned. "Your signal is 'Charlie on arrival.'" That meant they were cleared to land on the carrier immediately. "Roger." "Good luck." The plane was starting to roll. Robert fought to correct it, trying to gain altitude. "Come on, baby, you can make it." Robert's face was tight. They were losing too much altitude. "What's our ETA?" Edward looked at his chart. "Seven minutes." "I'm going to get you that hot lunch." Robert was nursing the plane along with all the skill at his command, using the throttle and rudder to try to keep it on a straight course. The altitude was still dropping alarmingly. Finally, ahead of him, Robert saw the sparkling blue waters of the Tonkin Gulf. "We're home free, buddy," Robert said. "Just a few more miles." "Terrific. I never doubted" And out of nowhere, two MiG's descended on the plane with a thunderous roar. Bullets began thudding against the fuselage. "Eddie! Bail out!" He turned to look. Edward was slumped against his seat belt, his right side torn open, blood spattering the cockpit. "No!" It was a scream. A second later, Robert felt a sudden, agonizing blow to his chest. His flight suit was instantly soaked in blood. The plane started to spiral downward. He felt himself losing consciousness. With his last ounce of strength, he unfastened his seat belt. He turned to take a final look at Edward. "I'm sorry," he whispered. He blacked out and later had no recollection of how he ejected out of the plane and parachuted into the water below. A Mayday call had been sent out, and a Sikorsky SH-3A Sea King helicopter from the U.S.S. Yorktown was circling, waiting to pick him up. In the distance, the crew could see Chinese junks rapidly closing in for the kill, but they were too late. When they loaded Robert into the helicopter, a medical corpsman took one look at his torn body and said, "Jesus Christ, he'll never even make it to the hospital." They gave Robert a shot of morphine, wrapped pressure bandages tightly around his chest, and flew him to the 12th Evacuation Hospital at Cu Chi Base. The "12th Evac," which served Cu Chi, Tay Ninh, and Dau Tieng bases, had four hundred beds in a dozen wards, housed in quonset huts arranged around a U-shaped compound connected by covered walkways. The hospital had two intensive-care units, one for surgery cases, the other for burns, and each unit was seriously overcrowded. When Robert was brought in, he left a bright red trail of blood across the hospital floor. A harried surgeon cut the bandages from Robert's chest, took one look, and said wearily, "He's not going to make it. Take him in back to cold storage." And the doctor moved on. Robert, fading in and out of consciousness, heard the doctor's voice from a far distance. So, this is it, he thought. What a lousy way to die. "You don't want to die, do you, sailor? Open your eyes. Come on." He opened his eyes and saw a blurred image of a white uniform and a woman's face. She was saying something more, but he could not make out the words. The ward was too noisy, filled with a cacophony of screams and moans of patients, and doctors yelling out orders, and nurses frantically running around administering to the savaged bodies that lay there. Robert's memory of the next forty-eight hours was a haze of pain and delirium. It was only later that he learned that the nurse, Susan Ward, had persuaded a doctor to operate on him and had donated her own blood for a transfusion. Fighting to keep him alive, they had put three IV's into Robert's ravaged body and pumped blood through them simultaneously. When the operation was over, the surgeon in charge sighed. "We've wasted our time. He's got no more than a ten percent chance of pulling through." But the doctor did not know Robert Bellamy. And he did not know Susan Ward. It seemed to Robert that whenever he opened his eyes, Susan was there, holding his hand, stroking his forehead, ministering to him, willing him to live. He was delirious most of the time. Susan sat quietly next to him in the dark ward in the middle of the lonely nights and listened to his ravings. ..... The DOD is wrong, you can't head in perpendicular to the target or you'll hit the river. -.. Tell them to angle the dives a few degrees off target heading. ... Tell them - -." he mumbled. Susan said soothingly, "I will." Robert's body was soaked in perspiration. She sponged him off. ---- . You have to remove all five of the safety pins or the seat won't eject. ... Check them. -.." "All right. Go back to sleep now." ----- The shackles on the multiple ejector racks malfunctioned. ... God only knows where the bombs landed. - Half the time Susan could not understand what her patient was talking about. Susan Ward was head of the emergency operatingroom nurses. She had come from a small town in Idaho and had grown up with the boy next door, Frank Prescott, the son of the mayor. Everyone in town assumed they would be married one day. Susan had a younger brother, Michael, whom she adored. On his eighteenth birthday, he joined the Army and was sent to Vietnam, and Susan wrote to him there every day. Three months after he had enlisted, Susan's family received a telegram, and she knew what it contained before they opened it. When Frank Prescott heard the news, he rushed over. "I'm really sorry, Susan. I liked Michael a lot." And then he made the mistake of saying, "Let's get married right away." And Susan had looked at him and made a decision. "No. I have to do something important with my life." "For God's sake! What's more important than marrying me?" The answer was Vietnam. Susan Ward went to nursing school. She had been in Vietnam for eleven months, working tirelessly, when Commander Robert Bellamy was wheeled in and sentenced to die. Triage was a common practice in emergency evacuation hospitals. The doctors would examine two or three patients and make summary judgments as to which one they would try to save. For reasons that were never truly clear to her, Susan had taken one look at the torn body of Robert Bellamy and had known that she could not let him die. Was it her brother she was trying to save? Or was it something else? She was exhausted and overworked, but instead of taking her time off, she spent every spare moment tending to him. Susan had looked up her patient's record. An ace Navy pilot and instructor, he had earned the Naval Cross. His birthplace was Harvey, Illinois, a small industrial city south of Chicago. He had enlisted in the Navy after graduating from college and had trained at Pensacola. He was unmarried. Each day, as Robert Bellamy was recuperating, walking the thin line between death and life, Susan whispered to him, "Come on, sailor. I'm waiting for you." One night, six days after he had been brought into the hospital, Robert was rambling on in his delirium, when suddenly he sat straight up in bed, looked at Susan, and said clearly, "It's not a dream. You're real." Susan felt her heart give a little jump. "Yes," she said softly. "I'm real." "I thought I was dreaming. I thought I had gone to heaven and God assigned you to me." She looked into Robert's eyes and said seriously, "I would have killed you if you had died." His eyes swept the crowded ward. "Where-where am I?" "The 12th Evacuation Hospital at Cu Chi." "How long have I been here?" "Six days." "Eddie-he-" "I'm sorry." "I have to tell the admiral." She took Robert's hand and said gently, "He knows. He's been here to visit you." Robert's eyes filled with tears. "I hate this goddamn war. I can't tell you how much I hate it." From that moment on, Robert's progress astonished the doctors. All his vital signs stabilized. "We'll be shipping him out of here soon," they told Susan. And she felt a sharp pang. Robert was not sure exactly when he fell in love with Susan Ward. Perhaps it was the moment when she was dressing his wounds, and nearby they heard the sounds of bombs dropping and she murmured, "They're playing our song." Or perhaps it was when they told Robert he was well enough to be transferred to Walter Reed Hospital in Washington to finish his convalescence, and Susan said, "Do you think I'm going to stay here and let some other nurse have that great body? Oh, no. I'm going to pull every string I can to go with you." They were married two weeks later. It took Robert a year to heal completely, and Susan tended to his every need, night and day. He had never met anyone like her, nor had he dreamed that he could ever love anyone so much. He loved her compassion and sensitivity, her passion and vitality. He loved her beauty and her sense of humor. On their first anniversary, he said to her, "You're the most beautiful, the most wonderful, the most caring human being in the world. There is no one on this earth with your warmth and wit and intelligence." And Susan had held him tightly and whispered in a nasal, chorus-girl voice, "Likewise, I'm sure." They shared more than love. They genuinely liked and respected each other. All their friends envied them, and with good reason. Whenever they talked about a perfect marriage, it was always Robert and Susan they held up as an example. They were compatible in every way, complete soul mates. Susan was the most sensual woman Robert had ever known, and they were able to set each other on fire with a touch, a word. One evening, when they were scheduled to go to a formal dinner party, Robert was running late. He was in the shower when Susan came into the bathroom carefully made up and dressed in a lovely strapless evening gown. "My God, you look sexy," Robert said. "It's too bad we don't have more time." "Oh, don't worry about that," Susan murmured. And a moment later she had stripped off her clothes and joined Robert in the shower. They never got to the party. Susan sensed Robert's needs almost before he knew them, and she saw to it that they were attended to. And Robert was equally attentive to her. Susan would find love notes on her dressing-room table, or in her shoes when she started to get dressed. Flowers and little gifts would be delivered to her on Groundhog Day and President Polk's birthday and in celebration of the Lewis and Clark Expedition. And the laughter that they shared. The wonderful laughter... * * * The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom. "We'll be landing in Zurich in ten minutes, Commander." Robert Bellamy's thoughts snapped back to the present, to his assignment. In his fifteen years with Naval Intelligence, he had been involved in dozens of challenging cases, but this one promised to be the most bizarre of them all. He was on his way to Switzerland to find a busload of anonymous witnesses who had disappeared into thin air. Talk about looking for a needle in a haystack. I don't even know where the haystack is. Where is Sherlock Holmes when I need him? "Will you fasten your seat belt, please?" The C20A was flying over dark forests, and a moment later, skimming over the runway etched by the landing lights of the Zurich International Airport. The plane taxied to the east side of the airport and headed for the small General Aviation building, away from the main terminal. There were still puddles on the tarmac from the earlier rainstorms, but the night sky was clear. "Crazy weather," the pilot commented. "Sunny here Sunday, rainy all day today, and clearing tonight. You don't need a watch here. What you really need is a barometer. Can I arrange a car for you, Commander?" "No, thanks." From this moment on, he was completely on his own. Robert waited until the plane taxied away, and then boarded a minibus to the airport hotel, where he collapsed into a dreamless sleep. Day Two 0800 Hours The next morning Robert approached a clerk behind the Europcar desk. "Guten Tag." It was a reminder that he was in the German-speaking part of Switzerland. "Guten Tag. Do you have a car available?" "Yes, sir, we do. How long will you be needing it?" Good question. An hour? A month? Maybe a year or two? "I'm not sure." "Do you plan to return the car to this airport?" "Possibly." The clerk looked at him strangely. "Very well. Will you fill out these papers, please?" Robert paid for the car with the special black credit card General Hilliard had given him. The clerk examined it, perplexed, then said, "Excuse me." He disappeared into an office, and when he returned, Robert asked, "Any problem?" "No, sir. None at all." The car was a gray Opel Omega. Robert got onto the airport highway and headed for downtown Zurich. He enjoyed Switzerland. It was one of the most beautiful countries in the world. Years earlier he had skied there. In more recent times, he had carried out assignments there, liaising with Espionage Abteilung, the Swiss intelligence agency. During World War II, the agency had been organized into three bureaus: D, P, and I, covering Germany, France, and Italy, respectively. Now its main purpose was related to detecting undercover espionage operations conducted within the various UN organizations in Geneva. Robert had friends in Espionage Abteilung, but he remembered General Hilliard's words: "You're not to get in touch with any of them." The drive into the city took twenty-five minutes. Robert reached the Dubendorf downtown exit ramp and headed for the Dolder Grand Hotel. It was exactly as he remembered it: an overgrown Swiss chateau with turrets, stately and imposing, surrounded by greenery and overlooking Lake Zurich. He parked the car and walked into the lobby. On the left was the reception desk. "Guten Tag." "Guten Tag. Haben Sie ein Zimmer fur eine Nacht?" "Ja. Wie mochten Sie bezahlen?" "Mit Kreditkarte." The black and white credit card that General Hilliard had given him. Robert asked for a map of Switzerland and was escorted to a comfortable room in the new wing of the hotel. It had a small balcony that overlooked the lake. Robert stood there, breathing in the crisp, autumn air, thinking about the task that lay ahead of him. He had nothing to go on. Not one damned thing. All the factors to the equation of his assignment were completely unknown. The name of the tour company. The number of passengers. Their names and whereabouts. "Are the witnesses all in Switzerland?" "That's our problem. We have no idea where they are, or who they are." And it wasn't enough to find some of the witnesses. "You must find every one of them." The only information he had was the place and date: Uetendorf, Sunday, October 14. He needed a handle, something to grab onto. If he remembered correctly, all-day tour buses left from only two major cities: Zurich and Geneva. Robert opened a desk drawer and took out the bulky Telefonbuch. I should look under M, for miracle, Robert thought. There were more than half a dozen tour companies listed: Sunshine Tours, Swisstour, Tour Service, Touralpino, Tourisma Reisen... He would have to check each of them. He copied down the addresses of all the companies and drove to the offices of the nearest one listed. There were two clerks behind the counter taking care of tourists. When one of them was free, Robert said, "Excuse me. My wife was on one of your tours last Sunday, and she left her purse on the bus. I think she got excited because she saw the weather balloon that crashed near Uetendorf." The clerk frowned. "Es tut mir viel leid. You must be mistaken. Our tours do not go near Uetendorf." "Oh. Sorry." Strike one. The next stop promised to be more fruitful. "Do your tours go to Uetendorf?" "Oh, ja." The clerk smiled. "Our tours go everywhere in Switzerland. They are the most scenic. We have a tour to Zermatt-the Tell Special. There is also the Glacier Express and the Palm Express. The Great Circle Tour leaves in fifteen-" "Did you have a tour Sunday that stopped to watch that weather balloon that crashed? I know my wife was late getting back to the hotel andThe clerk behind the counter said indignantly, "We take great pride in the fact that our tours are never late. We make no unscheduled stops." "Then one of your buses didn't stop to look at that weather balloon?" "Absolutely not." "Thank you." Strike two. The third office Robert visited was located at Bahnhofplatz, and the sign outside said Sunshine Tours. Robert walked up to the counter. "Good afternoon. I wanted to ask you about one of your tour buses. I heard that a weatherbaIloon crashed near Uetendorf and that your driver stopped for half an hour so the passengers could look at it." "No, no. He only stopped for fifteen minutes. We have very strict schedules." Home run! "What was your interest in this, did you say?" Robert pulled out one of the identification cards that had been given him. "I'm a reporter," Robert said earnestly, "and I'm doing a story for Travel and Leisure magazine on how efficient the buses in Switzerland are, compared with other countries. I wonder if I might interview your driver?" "That would make a very interesting article. Very interesting, indeed. We Swiss pride ourselves on our efficiency." "And that pride is well deserved," Robert assured him. "Would the name of our company be mentioned?" "Prominently." The clerk smiled. "Well, then I see no harm." "Could I speak with him now?" "This is his day off." He wrote a name on a piece of paper. Robert Bellamy read it upside down. Hans Beckerman. The clerk added an address. "He lives in Kappel. That's a small village about forty kilometers from Zurich. You should be able to find him at home now." Robert Bellamy took the paper. "Thank you very much. By the way," Robert said, "just so we have all the facts for the story, do you have a record of how many tickets you sold for that particular tour?" "Of course. We keep records of all our tours. Just a moment." He picked up a ledger underneath the counter and flipped a page. "Ah, here we are. Sunday. Hans Beckerman. There were seven passengers. He drove the Iveco that day, the small bus." Seven unknown passengers and the driver. Robert took a stab in the dark. "Would you happen to have the names of those passengers?" "Sir, people come in off the street, buy their ticket, and take the tour. We don't ask for identification." Wonderful. "Thank you again." Robert started toward the door. The clerk called out, "I hope you will send us a copy of the article." "Absolutely," Robert said. The first piece of the puzzle lay in the tour bus, and Robert drove to Talstrasse, where the buses departed, as though it might reveal some hidden clue. The Iveco bus was brown and silver, small enough to traverse the steep Alpine roads, with seats for fourteen passengers. Who are the seven, and where have they disappeared to? Robert got back in his car. He consulted his map and marked it. He took Lavessneralle out of the city, into the Albis, the start of the Alps, toward the village of Kappel. He headed south, driving past the small hills that surround Zurich, and began the climb into the magnificent mountain chain of the Alps. He drove through Adliswil and Langnau and Hausen and nameless hamlets with chalets and colorful picture-postcard scenery until almost an hour later, he came to Kappel. The little village consisted of a restaurant, a church, a post office, and twelve or so houses scattered around the hills. Robert parked the car and walked into the restaurant. A waitress was clearing a table near the door. "Entschuldigen Sie bitte, Fraulein. Welche R ichtung ist das Haus von Herr Beckerman?" "Ja." She pointed down the road. "An der Kirche rechts." "Danke." Robert turned right at the church and drove up to a modest two-story stone house with a ceramic tiled roof. He got out of the car and walked up to the door. He could see no bell, and knocked. A heavyset woman with a faint mustache answered the door. "Ja?" "I'm sorry to bother you. Is Mr. Beckerman in?" She eyed him suspiciously. "What do you want with him?" Robert gave her a winning smile. "You must be Mrs. Beckerman." He pulled out his reporter's identification card. "I'm doing a magazine article on Swiss bus drivers, and your husband was recommended to my magazine as having one of the finest safety records in the country." She brightened and said proudly, "My Hans is an excellent driver." "That's what everyone tells me, Mrs. Beckerman. I would like to do an interview with him." "An interview with my Hans for a magazine?" She was flustered. "That is very exciting. Come in, please." She led Robert into a small, meticulously neat living room. "Wait here, bitte. I will get Hans." The house had a low, beamed ceiling, dark wooden floors, and plain wooden furniture. There was a small stone fireplace and lace curtains at the windows. Robert stood there thinking. This was not only his best lead, it was his only lead. "People come in off the street, buy their ticket, and take the tour. We don't ask for identification. -. -,, There's no place to go from here, Robert thought grimly. If this doesn't work out, I can always place an ad: Will the seven bus passengers who saw a weather balloon crash Sunday please assemble in my hotel room at oh twelve hundred tomorrow. Breakfast will be served. A thin, bald man appeared. His complexion was pale, and he wore a thick, black mustache that was startlingly out of keeping with the rest of his appearance. "Good afternoon, Herr?" "Smith. Good afternoon." Robert's voice was hearty. "I've certainly been looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Beckerman." "My wife tells me you are writing a story about bus drivers." He spoke with a heavy German accent. Robert smiled ingratiatingly. "That's right. My magazine is interested in your wonderful safety record and-" "Scheissdreck!" Beckerman said rudely. "You are interested in the thing that crashed yesterday afternoon, no?" Robert managed to look abashed. "As a matter of fact, yes, I am interested in discussing that too." "Then why do you not come out and say so? Sit down." "Thank you." Robert took a seat on the couch. Beckerman said, "I am sorry I cannot offer you a drink, but we do not keep schnapps in the house anymore." He tapped his stomach. "Ulcers. The doctors cannot even give me drugs to relieve the pain. I am allergic to all of them." He sat down opposite Robert. "But you did not come here to talk about my health, eh? What is it you wish to know?" "I want to talk to you about the passengers who were on your bus Sunday when you stopped near Uetendorf at the site of the weather-balloon crash." Hans Beckerman was staring at him. "Weather balloon? What weather balloon? What are you talking about?" "The balloon that-" "You mean the spaceship." It was Robert's turn to stare. "The ... spaceship?" "Ja, the flying saucer." It took a moment for the words to sink in. Robert felt a sudden chill. "Are you telling me that you saw a flying saucer?" "Ja. With dead bodies in it." "Yesterday, in the Swiss Alps, a NATO weather balloon crashed. There were some experimental military objects aboard the balloon that are highly secret." Robert tried hard to sound calm. "Mr. Beckerman, are you certain that what you saw was a flying saucer?" "Of course. What they call a UFO." "And there were dead people inside?" "Not people, no. Creatures. It is hard to describe them." He gave a little shiver. "They were very small with big, strange eyes. They were dressed in suits of a silver metallic color. It was very frightening." Robert listened, his mind in a turmoil. "Did your passengers see this?" "Oh, ja. We all saw it. I stopped there for maybe fifteen minutes. They wanted me to stay longer, but the company is very strict about schedules." Robert knew the question was futile before he even asked it. "Mr. Beckerman, would you happen to know the names of any of your passengers?" "Mister, I drive a bus. The passengers buy a ticket in Zurich, and we take a tour southwest to Interlaken and then northwest to Bern. They can either get off at Bern or return to Zurich. Nobody gives their names." Robert said desperately, "There's no way you can identify any of them?" The bus driver thought for a moment. "Well, I can tell you there were no children on that trip. Just men." "Only men?" Beckerman thought for a moment. "No. That's not right. There was one woman too." Terrific. That really narrows it down, Robert thought. Next question: Why the hell did I ever agree to this assignment? "What you're saying, Mr. Beckerman, is that a group of tourists boarded your bus at Zurich, and then when the tour was over, they simply scattered?" "That's right, Mr. Smith." So there's not even a haystack. "Do you remember anything at all about the passengers? Anything they said or did?" Beckerman shook his head. "Mister, you get so you don't pay no attention to them. Unless they cause some trouble. Like that German." Robert sat very still. He asked softly, "What German?" "Affenarsch! All the other passengers were excited about seeing the UFO and those dead creatures in it, but this old man kept complaining about how we had to hurry up to get to Bern because he had to prepare some lecture for the university in the morning." A beginning. "Do you remember anything else about him?" "No." "Nothing at all?" "He was wearing a black overcoat." Great. "Mr. Beckerman, I want to ask you for a favor. Would you mind driving out with me to Uetendorf?" "It's my day off. I am busy with-" "I'll be glad to pay you." "Ja?" "Two hundred marks." "I don't-" "I'll make it four hundred marks." Beckerman thought for a moment. "Why not? It's a nice day for a drive, night?" They headed south, past Luzern and the picturesque villages of Immensee and Meggen. The scenery was breathtakingly beautiful, but Robert had other things on his mind. They passed through Engelberg, with its ancient Benedictine monastery, and Brunig, the pass leading to Interlaken. They sped past Leissigen and Faulensee, with its lovely blue lake dotted with white sailboats. "How much farther is it?" Robert asked. "Soon," Hans Beckerman promised. They had been driving for almost an hour when they came to Spiez. Hans Beckerman said, "It is not far now. Just past Thun." Robert felt his heart beginning to beat faster. He was about to witness something that was far beyond imagination, alien visitors from the stars. They drove through the little village of Thun, and a few minutes later, as they neared a grove of trees across the highway, Hans Beckerman pointed and said, "There!" Robert braked to a stop and pulled over to the side of the road. "Across the highway. Behind those trees." Robert felt a growing sense of excitement. "Right. Let's have a look." A truck was speeding by. When it had passed, Robert and Hans Beckerman crossed the road. Robert followed the bus driver up a small incline into the stand of trees. The highway was completely hidden from sight. As they stepped into a clearing, Beckerman announced, "It is right there." Lying on the ground in front of them were the torn remains of a weather balloon. I'm getting too old for this, Robert thought wearily. I was really beginning to fall for his flying-saucer fairy tale. Hans Beckerman was staring at the object on the ground, a confused expression on his face. "Verfalschen! That is not it." Robert sighed. "No, it isn't, is it?" Beckerman shook his head. "It was here yesterday." "Your little green men probably flew it away." Beckerman was stubborn, "No, no. They were both totdead." Tot-dead. That sums up my mission pretty well. My only lead is a crazy old man who sees spaceships. Robert walked over to the balloon to examine it more closely. It was a large aluminum envelope, fourteen feet in diameter, with serrated edges where it had ripped open when it crashed to earth. All the instruments had been removed, just as General Hilliard had told him. "I can't stress enough the importance of what was in that balloon." Robert circled the deflated balloon, his shoes squishing in the wet grass, looking for anything that might give him the slightest clue. Nothing. It was identical to a dozen other weather balloons he had seen over the years. The old man still would not give up, filled with Germanic stubbornness. "Those alien things ... They made it look like this. They can do anything, you know." There's nothing more to be done here, Robert decided. His socks had gotten wet walking through the tall grass. He started to turn away, then hesitated, struck by a thought. He walked back to the balloon. "Lift up a corner of this, will you?" Beckerman looked at him a moment, surprised. "You wish me to raise it up?" "Bitte." Beckerman shrugged. He picked up a corner of the lightweight material and lifted it while Robert raised another corner. Robert held the piece of aluminum over his head while he walked underneath the balloon toward the center. His feet sank into the grass. "It's wet under here," Robert called out. "Of course." The Dummkopf was left unsaid. "It rained all yesterday. The whole ground is wet." Robert crawled out from under the balloon. "It should be dry." "Crazy weather," the pilot said. "Sunny here Sunday." The day the balloon crashed. "Rainy all day today and clearing tonight. You don't need a watch here. What you really need is a barometer." "What?" "What was the weather like when you saw the UFO?" Beckerman thought for a moment. "It was a nice afternoon." "Sunny?" "Ja. Sunny." "But it rained all day yesterday?" Beckerman was looking at him, puzzled. "So?" "So if the balloon was here all night, the ground under it should be dry-or damp, at the most, through osmosis. But it's soaking wet, like the rest of this area." Beckerman was staring. "I don't understand. What does that mean?" "It could mean," Robert said carefully, "that someone placed this balloon here yesterday after the rain started and took away what you saw." Or was there some saner explanation he had not thought of? "Who would do such a crazy thing?" Not so crazy, Robert thought. The Swiss government could have planted this to deceive any curious visitors. The first stratagem of a cover-up is disinformation. Robert walked through the wet grass scanning the ground, cursing himself for being a gullible idiot. Hans Beckerman was watching Robert suspiciously. "What magazine did you say you write for, mister?" "Travel and Leisure." Hans Beckerman brightened. "Oh. Then I suppose you will want to take a picture of me, like the other fellow did." "What?" "That photographer who took pictures of us." Robert froze. "Who are you talking about?" "That photographer fellow. The one who took pictures of us at the wreck. He said he would send us each a print. Some of the passengers had cameras, too." Robert said slowly, "Just a moment. Are you saying that someone took a picture of the passengers here in front of the UFO?" "That's what I am trying to tell you." "And he promised to send you each a print?" "That's right." "Then he must have taken your names and addresses." "Well, sure. Otherwise, how would he know where to send them?" Robert stood still, a feeling of euphoria sweeping over him. Serendipity, Robert, you lucky sonofabitch! An impossible mission had suddenly become a piece of cake. He was no longer looking for seven unknown passengers. All he had to do was find one photographer. "Why didn't you mention him before, Mr. Beckerman?" "You asked me about passengers." "You mean he wasn't a passenger?" Hans Beckerman shook his head. "Nein." He pointed. "His car was stalled across the highway. A tow truck was starting to haul it away, and then there was this loud crash, and he ran across the road to see what was happening. When he saw what it was, the fellow ran back to his car, grabbed his cameras, and came back. Then he asked us all to pose in front of the saucer thing." "Did this photographer give you his name?" "No." "Do you remember anything about him?" Hans Beckerman concentrated. "Well, he was a foreigner. American or English." "You said a tow truck was getting ready to haul his car away?" "That's right." "Do you remember which way the truck was headed?" "North. I figured he was towing it into Bern. Thun is closer, but on Sunday, all the garages in Thun are closed." Robert grinned. "Thank you. You've been very helpful." "You won't forget to send me your article when it's finished?" "No. Here's your money and an extra hundred marks for your great help. I'll drive you home." They walked over to the car. As Beckerman opened the door, he stopped and turned toward Robert. "That was very generous of you." He took from his pocket a small rectangular piece of metal, the size of a cigarette lighter, containing a tiny white crystal. "What's this?" "I found it on the ground Sunday before we got back on the bus." Robert examined the strange object. It was as light as paper and was the color of sand. A rough edge at one end indicated that it might be part of another piece. Part of the equipment that was in the weather balloon? Or part of a UFO? "Maybe it will bring you luck," said Beckerman, as he placed the bills Robert had given him in his wallet. "It certainly worked for me." He smiled broadly and got into the car. It was time to ask himself the hard question: Do I really believe in UFOs? He had read many wild newspaper stories about people who said they had been beamed up into spaceships and had had all kinds of weird experiences, and he had always attributed those reports to people who were either looking for publicity or who should have thrown themselves on the mercy of a good psychiatrist. But in the past few years, there had been reports that were less easy to dismiss. Reports of UFO sightings by astronauts, Air Force pilots, and police officials, people with credibility, who shunned publicity. In addition there had been the disturbing report of the UFO crash at Roswell, New Mexico, where the bodies of aliens had purportedly been discovered. The government was supposed to have hushed that up and removed all the evidence. In World War II, pilots had reported strange sightings of what they called Foo fighters, unidentified objects that buzzed them and then disappeared. There were stories of towns visited by unexplainable objects that had come speeding through the sky. What if there really are aliens in UFOs from another galaxy? Robert wondered. How would it afect our world? Would it mean peace? War? The end of civilization as we know it? He found himself half hoping that Hans Beckerman was a raving lunatic, and that what had crashed was really a weather balloon. He would have to find another witness either to verify Beckerman's story or to refute it. On the surface, the story seemed incredible, but yet, there was something nagging at Robert. If it was only a weather balloon that crashed, even if it did carry special equipment, why was I called into a meeting at the National Security Agency at six o'clock in the morning and told that it was urgent that all the witnesses be found quickly? Is there a cover-up? And ifso ... why? Later that day, a press conference was held in Geneva in the austere offices of the Swiss Ministry of Internal Affairs. There were more than fifty reporters in the room and an overflow crowd outside in the corridor. There were representatives from television, radio, and the press from more than a dozen countries, many of them loaded down with microphones and television gear. They all seemed to be speaking at once. "We've heard reports that it was not a weather balloon. -.." "Is it true that it was a flying saucer?" "There are rumors that there were alien bodies aboard the ship. "Was one of the aliens alive?" "Is the government trying to hide the truth from the people? The press officer raised his voice to regain control. "Ladies and gentlemen, there has been a simple misunderstanding. We get calls all the time. People see satellites, shooting stars... Isn't it interesting that reports of UFOs are always made anonymously? Perhaps this caller really believed it was a UFO, but in actuality it was a weather balloon that fell to the ground. We have arranged transportation to take you to it. If you will follow me, please Fifteen minutes later, two busloads of reporters and television cameras were on their way to Uetendorf to see the remains of a weather-balloon crash. When they arrived, they stood in the wet grass surveying the torn metallic envelope. The press officer said, "This is your mysterious flying saucer. It was sent aloff from our air base in Vevey. To the best of our knowledge, ladies and gentlemen, there are no unidentified flying objects that our government has not been able to explain satisfactorily, nor to our knowledge, are there any extraterrestrials visiting us. It is our government's firm policy that if we should come across any such evidence, we would immediately make that information available to the public. If there are no further questions..." Hangar 17 at Langley Air Force Base in Virginia was locked in complete and rigid security. Outside, four armed marines guarded the perimeter of the building, and inside, three high-ranking Army officers stayed on alternate watches of eight hours each, guarding a sealed room inside the hangar. None of the officers knew what he was guarding. Besides the scientists and doctors who were working inside, there had been only three visitors permitted in the sealed chamber. The fourth visitor was just arriving. He was greeted by Brigadier General Paxton, the officer in charge of security. "Welcome to our menagerie." "I've been looking forward to this." "You won't be disappointed. Come this way, please." Outside the door of the sealed room was a rack containing four white, sterile suits that completely covered the body. "Would you please put one on?" the general asked. "Certainly." Janus slipped into the suit. Only his face was visible through the glass mask. He put large white slippers over his shoes, and the general led him to the entrance of the sealed room. The marine guard stepped aside, and the general opened the door. "In here." Janus entered the chamber and looked around. In the center of the room was the spaceship. On white autopsy tables at the other side lay the bodies of the two aliens. A pathologist was performing an autopsy on one of them. General Paxton directed the visitor's attention to the spaceship. "We're dealing here with what we believe to be a scout ship," General Paxton explained. "We're sure it has some way of communicating directly with the mother ship." The two men moved closer to examine the spacecraft. It was approximately thirty-five feet in diameter. The interior was shaped like a pearl, had an expandable ceiling, and contained three couches that resembled recliner chairs. The walls were covered with panels containing vibrating metal disks. "There's a lot here we haven't been able to figure out yet," General Paxton admitted. "But what we've already learned is amazing." He pointed to an array of equipment in small panels. "There's an integrated wide-field-of-view optical system, what appears to be a life-scan system, a communication system with voice-synthesis capability, and a navigational system that, frankly, has us stumped. We think it works on some kind of electromagnetic pulse." "Any weapons aboard?" Janus asked. General Paxton spread out his hands in a gesture of defeat. "We're not sure. There's a lot of hardware here we don't begin to understand." "What is its source of energy?" "Our best guess is that it uses monoatomic hydrogen in a closed loop so that its waste product, water, can be continuously recycled into hydrogen for power. With all that perpetual energy, it has a free ride in interplanetary space. It may be years before we solve all the secrets here. And there's something else that's puzzling. The bodies of the two aliens were strapped into their couches. But the indentations in the third couch indicate that it was occupied." "Are you saying," Janus asked slowly, "that one may be missing?" "It certainly looks that way." Janus stood there a moment frowning. "Let's have a look at our trespassers." The two men walked over to the tables where the two aliens lay. Janus stood there staring at the strange figures. It was incredible that things so foreign to humanity could exist as sentient beings. The foreheads of the aliens were larger than he had expected. The creatures were completely bald, with no eyelids or eyebrows. The eyes resembled Ping-Pong balls. The doctor performing the autopsy looked up as the men approached. "It's fascinating," he said. "A hand has been severed from one of the aliens. There's no sign of blood, but there are what appear to be veins that contain a green liquid. Most of it has drained out." "A green liquid?" Janus asked. "Yes." The doctor hesitated. "We believe these creatures are a form of vegetable life." "A thinking vegetable? Are you serious?" "Watch this." The doctor picked up a watering can and sprinkled water over the arm of the alien with a missing hand. For a moment, nothing happened. And then suddenly, at the end of the arm, green matter oozed out and slowly began to form a hand. The two men stared, shocked. "Jesus! Are these things dead or not?" "That's an interesting question. These two figures are not alive, in the human sense, but neither do they fit our definition of death. I would say they're dormant." Janus was still staring at the newly formed hand. "Many plants show various forms of intelligence." "Intelligence?" "Oh, yes. There are plants that disguise themselves, protect themselves. At this moment, we're doing some amazing experiments on plant life." Janus said, "I would like to see those experiments." "Certainly. I'll be happy to arrange it." The huge greenhouse laboratory was in a complex of government buildings thirty miles outside of Washington, D.C. Hanging on the wall was an inscription that read: The maples and ferns are still uncorrupt, Yet, no doubt, when they come to consciousness, They too, will curse and swear. Ralph Waldo Emerson Nature, 1836 Professor Rachman, who was in charge of the complex, was an earnest gnome of a man, filled with enthusiasm for his profession. "It was Charles Darwin who was the first to perceive the ability of plants to think. Luther Burbank followed up by communicating with them." "You really believe that is possible?" "We know it is. George Washington Carver communed with plants, and they gave him hundreds of new products. Carver said, 'When I touch a flower, I am touching Infinity. Flowers existed long before there were human beings on this earth, and they will continue to exist for millions of years after. Through the flower, I talk to Infinity... Janus looked around the enormous greenhouse they were standing in. It was filled with plants and exotic flowers that rainbowed the room. The mixture of perfumes was overpowering. "Everything in this room is alive," Professor Rachman said. "These plants can feel love, hate, pain, excitement ... just as animals do. Sir Jagadis Chandra Bose proved that they respond to a tone of voice." "How does one prove something like that?" Janus asked. "I will be happy to demonstrate." Rachman walked over to a table covered with plants. Beside the table was a polygraph machine. Rachman lifted one of the electrodes and attached it to a plant. The needle on the dial of the polygraph was at rest. "Watch," he said. He leaned closer to the plant and whispered, "I think you are very beautiful. You are more beautiful than all the other plants here. -.." Janus watched the needle move ever so slightly. Suddenly, Professor Rachman screamed at the plant, "You are ugly! You are going to die! Do you hear me? You are going to die!" The needle began to quiver, then it moved sharply upward. "My God," Janus said. "I can't believe it." "What you see," Rachman said, "is the equivalent of a human being screaming. National magazines have published articles about these experiments. One of the most interesting was a blind experiment conducted by six students. One of them, unknown to the others, was chosen to walk into a room with two plants, one of them wired to a polygraph. He completely destroyed the other plant. Later, one by one, the students were sent into the room to pass by the plants. When the innocent students walked in, the polygraph registered nothing. But the moment the guilty one appeared, the needle on the polygraph shot up." "That's incredible." "But true. We've also learned that plants respond to different kinds of music." "Different kinds?" "Yes. They did an experiment at Temple Buell College in Denver where healthy flowers were put in three separate glass cases. Acid rock was piped into one, soft East Indian sitar music was piped into the second, and the third had no music. A CBS camera crew recorded the experiment using time-lapse photography. At the end of two weeks, the flowers exposed to the rock music were dead, the group with no music was growing normally, and the ones that heard the sitar music had turned into beautiful blooms, with flowers and stems reaching toward the source of the sound. Walter Cronkite ran the film on his news show. If you wish to check it, it was on October 26, 1970." "Are you saying plants have an intelligence?" "They breathe, and eat, and reproduce. They can feel pain, and they can utilize defenses against their enemies. For example, terpenes are used by certain plants to poison the soil around them and to discourage competitors. Other plants exude alkaloids to make them unpalatable to insects. We've proved that plants communicate with one another by pheromones." "Yes. I've heard of that," Janus said. "Some plants are meat eaters. The venus flytrap, for example. Certain orchids look and smell like female bees, to decoy male bees. Others resemble female wasps to attract the males to visit them and pick up pollen. Another type of orchid has an aroma like rotting meat to coax carrion flies in the neighborhood to come to them." Janus was listening to every word. "The pink lady's-slipper has a hinged upper lip that closes when a bee lands, and traps it. The only escape is through a narrow passageway out the rear, and as the bee fights its way to freedom, it picks up a cap of pollen. There are five thousand flowering plants that grow in the Northeast, and each species has its own characteristics. There is no doubt about it. It's been proven over and over that living plants have an intelligence." Janus was thinking: And the missing alien is at large somewhere. Day Three Bern, Switzerland Wednesday, October 17 Bern was one of Robert's favorite cities. It was an elegant town, filled with lovely monuments and beautiful old stone buildings dating back to the eighteenth century. It was the capital of Switzerland and one of its most prosperous cities, and Robert wondered whether the fact that the streetcars were green had anything to do with the color of money. He had found that the Berners were more easygoing than the citizens from other parts of Switzerland. They moved more deliberately, spoke more slowly, and were generally calmer. He had worked in Bern several times in the past with the Swiss Secret Service, operating out of their headquarters at Waisenhausplatz. He had friends there who could have been helpful, but his instructions were clear. Puzzling, but clear. It took fifteen phone calls for Robert to locate the garage that towed the photographer's car. It was a small garage located on Fribourgstrasse, and the mechanic, Fritz Mandel, was also the owner. Mandel appeared to be in his late forties, with a gaunt, acne-pitted face, a thin body, and an enormous beer belly. He was working down in the pit of the grease rack when Robert arrived. "Good afternoon," Robert called. Mandel looked up. "Guten Tag. What can I do for you?" "I'm interested in a car you towed in Sunday." "Just a minute till I finish this up." Ten minutes later, Mandel climbed out of the pit and wiped his oily hands on a filthy cloth. "You're the one who called this morning. Was there some complaint about that tow job?" Mandel asked. "I'm not responsible for-" "No," Robert reassured him. "Not at all. I'm conducting a survey, and I'm interested in the driver of the car." "Come into the office." The two men went into the small office, and Mandel opened a file cabinet. "Last Sunday, you said?" "That's right." Mandel took out a card. "Ja. That was the Arschficker who took our picture in front of that UFO." Robert's palms felt suddenly moist. "You saw the UFO?" "Ja. I almost brachte aus." "Can you describe it?" Mandel shuddered. "It-it seemed alive." "I beg your pardon?" "I mean ... there was a kind of light around it. It kept changing colors. It looked blue ... then green I don't know. It's hard to describe. And there were these little creatures inside. Not human, but-" He broke off. "How many?" "Two." "Were they alive?" "They looked dead to me." He mopped his brow. "I'm glad you believe me. I tried to tell my friends, and they laughed at me. Even my wife thought I had been drinking. But I know what I saw." "About the car you towed - - -" Robert said. "Ja. The Renault. It had an oil leak, and the bearings burned out. The tow job cost a hundred and twenty-five francs. I charge double on Sundays." "Did the driver pay by check or credit card?" "I don't take checks, and I don't take no credit cards. He paid in cash." "Swiss francs?" "Pounds." "Are you sure?" "Yes. I remember I had to check the rate of exchange." "Mr. Mandel, do you happen to have a record of the license number of the car?" "Of course." Mandel said. He glanced down at the card. "It was a rental. Avis. He rented it in Geneva." "Would you mind giving me that license number?" "Sure, why not?" He wrote the number down on a piece of paper and handed it to Robert. "What is this all about, anyway? The UFO thing?" "No," Robert said, in his sincerest voice. He took out his wallet and pulled out an identification card. "I'm with the IAC, the International Auto Club. My company is doing a survey on tow trucks." "Oh." Robert walked out of the garage and thought dazedly, It looks like we have a fucking UFO with two dead aliens on our hands. Then why had General Hilliard lied to him when he knew Robert would discover that it was a flying saucer that had crashed? There could only be one explanation, and Robert felt a sudden, cold chill. The huge mothership floated noiselessly through dark space, seemingly motionless, traveling at twenty-two thousand miles an hour in exact synchronization with the orbit of the earth. The six aliens aboard were studying the three-dimensional field-of-view optical screen that covered one wall of the spaceship. On the monitor, as the planet Earth rotated, they watched holographic pictures of what lay below while an electronic spectrograph analyzed the chemical components of the images that appeared. The atmosphere of the land masses they overflew was heavily polluted. Huge factories befouled the air with thick, black, poisonous gases while unbiodegradable refuse was dumped into landfills and into the seas. The aliens looked down at the oceans, once pristine and blue, now black with oil and brown with scum. The coral of the Great Barrier Reef was turning bleach-white, and fish were dying by the billions. Where trees had been stripped in the Amazon rain forest, there was a huge, barren crater. The instruments on the spaceship indicated that the earth's temperature had risen since their last exploration three years earlier. They could see wars being waged on the planet below, which spewed new poisons into the atmosphere. The aliens communicated by mental telepathy. Nothing has changed with the earthlings. It is a pity. They have learned nothing. We will teach them. Have you tried to reach the others? Yes. Something is wrong. There is no reply. You must keep trying. We must find the ship. On earth, thousands of feet below the spaceship's orbit, Robert placed a call from a secure phone to General Hilliard. He came on the line almost immediately. "Good afternoon, Commander. Do you have anything to report?" Yes. I would like to report that you are a lying sonofabitch. "About that weather balloon, General -.- it seems to have turned out to be a UFO." He waited. "Yes, I know. There were important security reasons why I couldn't tell you everything earlier." Bureaucratic double-talk. There was a short silence. General Hilliard said, "I'm going to tell you something in the strictest confidence, Commander. Our government had an encounter with extraterrestrials three years ago. They landed at one of our NATO air bases. We were able to communicate with them." Robert felt his heart begin to beat faster. "What-what did they say?" "That they intended to destroy us." He felt a shock go through him. "Destroy us?" "Exactly. They said they were coming back to take over this planet and make slaves of us, and that there is nothing we can do to prevent them. Not yet. But we're working on ways to stop them. That's why it's imperative that we avoid a public panic so we can buy time. I think you can understand now why it's so important that the witnesses are warned not to discuss what they saw. If word of the Idents, as we refer to them, leaked out, it would be a worldwide disaster." "You don't think it would be better to prepare people and?" "Commander, in 1938, a young actor named Orson Welles broadcast a radio play called 'War of the Worlds' about aliens invading the earth. Within minutes there was panic in cities all over America. A hysterical population tried to flee from the imaginary invaders. The telephone lines were jammed, the highways were clogged. People were killed. There was total chaos. No, we have to be prepared for the aliens before we go public with this. We want you to find those witnesses for their own protection, so we can keep this under control." Robert found that he was perspiring. "Yes. I-I understand." "Good. I gather you've talked to one of the witnesses?" "I've found two of them." "Their names?" "Hans Beckermanhe was the driver of the tour bus. He lives in Kappel. " "And the second?" "Fritz Mandel. He owns his own garage in Bern. He was the mechanic who towed the car of a third witness." "The name of that witness?" "I don't have it yet. I'm working on it. Would you like me to speak with them about not discussing this UFO business with anyone?" "Negative. Your assignment is simply to locate the witnesses. After that we'll let their respective governments deal with them. Have you learned how many witnesses there are?" "Yes. Seven passengers plus the driver, the mechanic, and a passing motorist." "You must locate them all. Each and every one of the ten witnesses who saw the crash. Understood?" "Yes, General." Robert replaced the receiver, his mind in a whirl. UFOs were real. The aliens were enemies. It was a horrifying thought. Suddenly, the uneasy feeling Robert had had earlier returned in full force. General Hilliard had given him this assignment, but they had not told him everything. What else were they holding back? The Avis rental-car company is located at 44 Rue de Lausanne in the heart of Geneva. Robert stormed into the office and approached a woman behind the desk. "May I help you?" Robert slammed down the piece of paper with the license number of the Renault written on it. "You rented this car out last week. I want the name of the person who rented it." His voice was angry. The clerk drew back. "I'm sorry, we are not permitted to give out that information." "Well, that's just too bad," Robert retorted, "because in that case, I'm going to have to sue your company for a great deal of money." "I do not understand. What is the problem?" "I'll tell you what the problem is, lady. Last Sunday this car ran into mine on the highway and did a hell of a lot of damage. I managed to get his license number, but the man drove away before I could stop" "I see." The clerk studied Robert a moment. "Excuse me, please." She disappeared into a back room. In a few minutes when she returned, she was carrying a file. "According to our records, there was a problem with the engine of the car, but there was no report of any accident." "Well, I'm reporting it now. And I'm holding your company responsible for this. You're going to have to pay to have my car repaired. It's a brand-new Porsche, and it's going to cost you a fortune. "I'm very sorry, sir, but the accident was not reported, we cannot take any responsibility for it." "Look," Robert said in a more reasonable tone of voice, "I want to be fair. I don't want to hold your company responsible. All I want to do is have that man pay for the damage he did to my car. It was a hit-and-run. I may even have to bring the police into this. If you give me the man's name and address, I can talk directly to him, and we can settle it between us and leave your company out of it. Is that fair enough?" The clerk stood there, making up her mind. "Yes. We would much prefer that." She looked down at the file in her hand. "The name of the person who rented the car is Leslie Mothershed." "And his address?" "Two thirteen A Grove Road, Whitechapel, London, East Three." She looked up. "You are certain our company will not be involved in any litigation?" "You have my word on it," Robert assured her. "This is a private matter between Leslie Mothershed and me." Commander Robert Bellamy was on the next Swissair flight to London. He sat in the dark alone, concentrating, meticulously going over every phase of the plan, making certain that there were no loopholes, that nothing could go wrong. His thoughts were interrupted by the soft buzz of the telephone. "Janus here." "Janus. General Hilliard." "Proceed." "Commander Bellamy has located the first two witnesses." "Very good. Have it attended to immediately." "Yes, sir." "Where is the commander now?" "On his way to London. He should have number three confirmed shortly." "I will alert the committee as to his progress. Continue to keep me informed. The condition of this operation must remain Nova Red." "Understood, sir. I would suggest The line was dead. .....cont


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The Manual of the Warrior of Light by:Paulo Coelho
Catagory:Fiction
Author:
Posted Date:11/02/2024
Posted By:utopia online

Prologue 'Just off the beach to the west of the village lies an island, and on it is a vast temple with many bells,' said the woman. The boy noticed that she was dressed strangely and had a veil covering her head. He had never seen her before. 'Have you ever visited that temple?' she asked. 'Go there and tell me what you think of it?' Seduced by the woman's beauty, the boy went to the place she had indicated. He sat down on the beach and stared out at the horizon, but he saw only what he always saw: blue sky and ocean. Disappointed, he walked to a nearby fishing village and asked if anyone there knew about an island and a temple. 'Oh, that was many years ago, when my great-grandparents were alive,' said an old fisherman. 'There was an earthquake, and the island was swallowed up by the sea. But although we can no longer see the island, we can still hear the temple bells when the ocean sets them swinging down below.' The boy went back to the beach and tried to hear the bells. He spent the whole afternoon there, but all he heard was the noise of the waves and the cries of the seagulls. When night fell, his parents came looking for him. The following morning, he went back to the beach; he could not believe that such a beautiful woman would have lied to him. If she ever returned, he could tell her that, although he had not seen the island, he had heard the temple bells set ringing by the motion of the waves. Many months passed; the woman did not return and the boy forgot all about her; now he was convinced that he needed to discover the riches and treasures in the submerged temple. If he could hear the bells, he would be able to locate it and salvage the treasure hidden below. He lost interest in school and even in his friends. He became the butt of all the other children's jokes. They used to say: 'He's not like us. He prefers to sit looking at the sea because he's afraid of being beaten in our games.' And they all laughed to see the boy sitting on the shore. Although he still could not hear the old temple bells ringing, the boy nevertheless learned about other things. He began to realise that he had grown so used to the sound of the waves that he was no longer distracted by them. Soon after that, he became used to the cries of the seagulls, the buzzing of the bees and the wind blowing amongst the palm trees. Six months after his first conversation with the woman, the boy could sit there oblivious to all other noises, but he still could not hear the bells from the drowned temple. Fishermen came and talked to him, insisting that they had heard the bells. But the boy never did. Some time later, however, the fishermen changed their tune: 'You spend far too much time thinking about the bells beneath the sea. Forget about them and go back to playing with your friends. Perhaps it's only fishermen who can hear them.' After almost a year, the boy thought: 'Perhaps they're right. I would do better to grow up and become a fisherman and come down to this beach every morning, because I've come to love it here.' And he thought too: 'Perhaps it's just another legend and the bells were all shattered during the earthquake and have never rung out since.' That afternoon, he decided to go back home. He walked down to the ocean to say goodbye. He looked once more at the natural world around him and because he was no longer concerned about the bells, he could again smile at the beauty of the seagulls' cries, the roar of the sea and the wind blowing in the palm trees. Far off, he heard the sound of his friends playing and he felt glad to think that he would soon resume his childhood games. The boy was happy and - as only a child can - he felt grateful for being alive. He was sure that he had not wasted his time, for he had learned to contemplate Nature and to respect it. Then, because he was listening to the sea, the seagulls, the wind in the palm trees and the voices of his friends playing, he also heard the first bell. And then another. And another, until, to his great joy, all the bells in the drowned temple were ringing. Years later, when he was a grown man, he returned to the village and to the beach of his childhood. He no longer dreamed of finding treasure at the bottom of the sea; perhaps that had all been a mere product of his imagination, and he had never in fact heard the submerged bells ring out on one lost childhood afternoon. Even so, he decided to walk for a while along the beach, to listen to the noise of the wind and to the cries of the seagulls. Imagine his surprise when, there on the beach, he saw the woman who had first spoken to him about the island and its temple. 'What are you doing here?' he asked. 'I was waiting for you,' she replied. He noticed that, despite the passing years, the woman looked exactly the same; the veil hiding her hair had not faded with time. She handed him a blue notebook full of blank pages. 'Write: a warrior of light values a child's eyes because they are able to look at the world without bitterness. When he wants to find out if the person beside him is worthy of his trust, he tries to see him as a child would.' 'What is a warrior of light?' 'You already know that,' she replied with a smile. 'He is someone capable of understanding the miracle of life, of fighting to the last for something he believes in - and of hearing the bells that the waves sets ringing on the seabed.' He had never thought of himself as a warrior of light. The woman seemed to read his thoughts. 'Everyone is capable of these things. And though no one thinks of themselves as a warrior of light, we all are.' He looked at the blank pages in the notebook. The woman smiled again. 'Write about that warrior,' she said. The Manual of the Warrior of Light A warrior of light knows that he has much to be grateful for. He was helped in his struggle by the angels; celestial forces placed each thing in its place, thus allowing him to give of his best. His companions say: 'He's so lucky!' And the warrior does sometimes achieve things far beyond his capabilities. That is why, at sunset, he kneels and gives thanks for the Protective Cloak surrounding him. His gratitude, however, is not limited to the spiritual world; he never forgets his friends, for their blood mingled with his on the battlefield. A warrior does not need to be reminded of the help given him by others; he is the first to remember and makes sure to share with them any rewards he receives. All the world's roads lead to the heart of the warrior; he plunges unhesitatingly into the river of passions always flowing through his life. The warrior knows that he is free to choose his desires, and he makes these decisions with courage, detachment and - sometimes - with just a touch of madness. He embraces his passions and enjoys them intensely. He knows that there is no need to renounce the pleasures of conquest; they are part of life and bring joy to all those who participate in them. But he never loses sight of those things that last or of the strong bonds that are forged over time. A warrior can distinguish between the transient and the enduring. A warrior of light does not rely on strength alone, he makes use of his opponent's energy too. When he enters the fight, all he has is his enthusiasm and the moves and strikes that he learned during his training. As the fight progresses, he discovers that enthusiasm and training are not enough to win: what counts is experience. Then he opens his heart to the Universe and asks God to give him the inspiration he needs to turn every blow from his enemy into a lesson in self- defence. His companions say: 'He's so superstitious. He stopped fighting in order to pray; he even shows respect for his opponent's tricks.' The warrior does not respond to these provocations. He knows that without inspiration and experience, no amount of training will help him. A warrior of light never resorts to trickery, but he knows how to distract his opponent. However anxious he is, he uses every strategy at his disposal to gain his objective. When he sees that his strength is almost gone, he makes his enemy think that he is simply biding his time. When he needs to attack the right flank, he moves his troops to the left. If he intends beginning the battle at once, he pretends instead that he is tired and prepares for sleep. His friends say: 'Look, he's lost all enthusiasm.' But he pays no attention to such remarks because his friends do not understand his tactics. A warrior of light knows what he wants. And he has no need to waste time on explanations. A wise Chinese has this to say about the strategies of the warrior of light: 'Convince your enemy that he will gain very little by attacking you; this will diminish his enthusiasm.' 'Do not be ashamed to make a temporary withdrawal from the field if you see that your enemy is stronger than you; it is not winning or losing a single battle that matters, but how the war ends.' 'Even if you are very strong, never be ashamed to feign weakness; this will make your enemy act imprudently and attack too soon.' 'In war, the key to victory is the ability to surprise one's opponent.' 'It's odd,' says the warrior of light to himself. 'I have met so many people who, at the first opportunity, try to show their very worst qualities. They hide their inner strength behind aggression; they hide their fear of loneliness behind an air of independence. They do not believe in their own abilities, but are constantly trumpeting their virtues.' The warrior reads these messages in many of the men and women he meets. He is never taken in by appearances and makes a point of remaining silent when people try to impress him. And he uses the occasion to correct his own faults, for other people make an excellent mirror. A warrior takes every opportunity to teach himself. The warrior of light sometimes fights with those he loves. The man who defends his friends is never overwhelmed by the storms of life; he is strong enough to come through difficulties and to carry on. However, he is often faced by challenges from those to whom he is trying to teach the art of the sword. His disciples provoke him into fighting with them. And the warrior demonstrates his abilities: with just a few blows he disarms his students, and harmony returns to the place where they meet. 'Why bother to do that, when you are so much better than they are?' asks a traveller. 'Because in challenging me, what they really want is to talk to me and this is my way of keeping dialogue open,' replies the warrior. Before embarking on an important battle, a warrior of light asks himself: 'How far have I developed my abilities?' He knows that he has learned something with every battle he has fought, but many of those lessons have caused him unnecessary suffering. More than once he has wasted his time fighting for a lie. And he has suffered for people who did not deserve his love. Victors never make the same mistake twice. That is why the warrior only risks his heart for something worthwhile. A warrior of light respects the main teaching of the I Ching: 'To persevere is favourable.' He knows that perseverance is not the same thing as insistence. There are times when battles go on longer than necessary, draining him of strength and enthusiasm. At such moments, the warrior thinks: 'A prolonged war finally destroys the victors too.' Then he withdraws his forces from the battlefield and allows himself a respite. He perseveres in his desire, but knows he must wait for the best moment to attack. A warrior always returns to the fray. He never does so out of stubbornness, but because he has noticed a change in the weather. A warrior of light knows that certain moments repeat themselves. He often finds himself faced by the same problems and situations, and seeing these difficult situations return, he grows depressed, thinking that he is incapable of making any progress in life. 'I've been through all this before,' he says to his heart. 'Yes, you have been through all this before,' replies his heart. 'But you have never been beyond it.' Then the warrior realises that these repeated experiences have but one aim: to teach him what he does not want to learn. A warrior of light is never predictable. He might dance down the street on his way to work, gaze into the eyes of a complete stranger and speak of love at first sight, or else defend an apparently absurd idea. Warriors of light allow themselves days like these. He is not afraid to weep over ancient sorrows or to feel joy at new discoveries. When he feels that the moment has arrived, he drops everything and goes off on some long-dreamed-of adventure. When he realises that he can do no more, he abandons the fight, but never blames himself for having committed a few unexpected acts of folly. A warrior does not spend his days trying to play the role that others have chosen for him. Warriors of light always keep a certain gleam in their eyes. They are of this world, they are part of the lives of other people and they set out on their journey with no saddlebags and no sandals. They are often cowardly. They do not always make the right decisions. They suffer over the most trivial things, they have mean thoughts and sometimes believe they are incapable of growing. They frequently deem themselves unworthy of any blessing or miracle. They are not always quite sure what they are doing here. They spend many sleepless nights, believing that their lives have no meaning. That is why they are warriors of light. Because they make mistakes. Because they ask themselves questions. Because they are looking for a reason - and are sure to find it. The warrior of light does not worry that, to others, his behaviour might seem quite mad. He talks out loud to himself when he is alone. Someone told him that this is the best way of communicating with the angels, and so he takes a chance and tries to make contact. At first, he finds this very difficult. He thinks that he has nothing to say, that he will just repeat the same meaningless twaddle. Even so, the warrior persists. He spends all day talking to his heart. He says things with which he does not agree, he talks utter nonsense. One day, he notices a change in his voice. He realises that he is acting as a channel for some higher wisdom. The warrior may seem mad, but this is just a disguise. According to a poet: 'The warrior of light chooses his enemies.' He knows what he is capable of; he does not have to go about the world boasting of his qualities and virtues. Nevertheless, there is always someone who wants to prove himself better than he is. For the warrior, there is no 'better' or 'worse': everyone has the necessary gifts for his particular path. But certain people insist. They provoke and offend and do everything they can to irritate him. At that point, his heart says: 'Do not respond to these insults, they will not increase your abilities. You will tire yourself needlessly.' A warrior of light does not waste his time listening to provocations; he has a destiny to fulfil. The warrior of light remembers a passage from John Bunyan: 'Although I have been through all that I have, I do not regret the many hardships I met, because it was they who brought me to the place I wished to reach. Now all I have is this sword and I give it to whomever wishes to continue his pilgrimage. I carry with me the marks and scars of battles - they are the witnesses of what I suffered and the rewards of what I conquered. These are the beloved marks and scars that will open the gates of Paradise to me. There was a time when I used to listen to tales of bravery. There was a time when I lived only because I needed to live. But now I live because I am a warrior and because I wish one day to be in the company of Him for whom I have fought so hard.' The moment that he begins to walk along it, the warrior of light recognises the Path. Each stone, each bend cries welcome to him. He identifies with the mountains and the streams, he sees something of his own soul in the plants and the animals and the birds of the field. Then, accepting the help of God and of God's Signs, he allows his Personal Legend to guide him towards the tasks that life has reserved for him. On some nights, he has nowhere to sleep, on others, he suffers from insomnia. 'That's just how it is,' thinks the warrior. 'I was the one who chose to walk this path.' In these words lies all his power: he chose the path along which he is walking and so has no complaints. From now on - and for the next few hundred years - the Universe is going to help warriors of light and hinder the prejudiced. The Earth's energy needs to be renewed. New ideas need space. Body and soul need new challenges. The future has become the present, and every dream - except those dreams that involve preconceived ideas - will have a chance to be heard. Anything of importance will remain; anything useless will disappear. However, it is not the warrior's responsibility to judge the dreams of others, and he does not waste time criticising other people's decisions. In order to have faith in his own path, he does not need to prove that someone else's path is wrong. A warrior of light carefully studies the position that he intends to conquer. However difficult the objective, there is always a way of overcoming obstacles. He seeks out alternative paths, he sharpens his sword, he tries to fill his heart with the necessary perseverance to face the challenge. But as he advances, the warrior realises that there are difficulties he had not reckoned with. If he waits for the ideal moment, he will never set off; he requires a touch of madness to take the next step. The warrior uses that touch of madness. For - in both love and war - it is impossible to foresee everything. A warrior of light knows his own faults. But he also knows his qualities. Some of his companions complain all the time that 'other people have more opportunities than we do'. Perhaps they are right, but a warrior does not allow himself to be paralysed by this; he tries to make the most of his virtues. He knows that the gazelle's power lies in its strong legs. The power of the seagull lies in the accuracy with which it can spear a fish. He has learned that the reason the tiger does not fear the hyena is because he is aware of his own strength. He tries to establish what he can truly rely on. And he always checks that he carries three things with him: faith, hope and love. If these three things are there, he does not hesitate to go forward. The warrior of light knows that no one is stupid and that life teaches everyone - however long that may take. He always does his best and expects the best of others. Through his generosity, he tries to show each person how much they are capable of achieving. Some of his companions say: 'Some people are so ungrateful.' The warrior is not discouraged by this. And he continues to encourage other people because this is also a way of encouraging himself. Every warrior of light has felt afraid of going into battle. Every warrior of light has, at some time in the past, lied or betrayed someone. Every warrior of light has trodden a path that was not his. Every warrior of light has suffered for the most trivial of reasons. Every warrior of light has, at least once, believed that he was not a warrior of light. Every warrior of light has failed in his spiritual duties. Every warrior of light has said 'yes' when he wanted to say 'no'. Every warrior of light has hurt someone he loved. That is why he is a warrior of light, because he has been through all this and yet has never lost hope of being better than he is. The warrior always listens to the words of certain older thinkers, such as these by T.H.Huxley: 'The consequences of our actions are the scarecrows of fools and the beacons of wise men.' 'The chess-board is the world; the pieces are the gestures of our daily lives; the rules of the game are what we call the laws of Nature. The player on the other side is hidden from us, but we know that his play is always fair, just and patient.' The warrior simply has to accept the challenge. He knows that God never overlooks a single mistake made by those he loves nor does he allow his favourites to pretend ignorance of the rules of the game.


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