Andrew Davis
Miss Smith
Enriched Language Arts 10-Period 3
5, Febuary, 2009
The Legend of Crying Oak
It was the year 1670 by the white man’s count and a young Seneca Indian lay on a hill by the Crooked River, concealed by the dense summer undergrowth. The youth, named Crying Oak, had been sent out for the day by the shaman of his tribe. The reason behind this was that Crying Oak was due to be wed to the beautiful Mourning Dove on the morrow and it was not proper for him to view his wife to be before the ceremony. He had been given a wineskin to slake his thirst and parting words to guide his future.
“When you return, you shall weep and earn your name.” the shaman had said.
In spite of these words Crying Oak was proud and he had never cried, nor would he in his future, he assured himself. Crying Oak was a giant amongst men, standing taller than all that lived near him, and he was renowned in his village for the strength he had in his big, broad, shoulders.
For quite some time Crying Oak sat motionless in the foliage, listening to the sounds of the river just a few feet below his current position. Then around about when the sun reached its zenith he took a long drought from the wineskin. Crying Oak immediately felt drowsy and, figuring that the shaman had put a special, ceremonial brew in his drink, he feel into a deep and untroubled sleep as he lay amongst the sheltering underbrush.
When he awoke he noticed several things, first that it was midmorning, second that most of his body was covered with decaying leaves, and finally that the waters of the Crooked River seemed to have receded about a foot or so. He got up and brushed the dead foliage from his body, but the sharp scent of earth clung to his moccasins and leather stockings.
“What strange sorceries be riddle me such?” Crying Oak mused to himself “No matter, these things cannot make me cry!”
Crying oak hastened back to the village, but to his utter amazement it was not to be found! Instead there was a thriving town of white skinned men, with grand log houses and a partially paved cobblestone road. Quite bemused the Indian approached a man close to his position. The man did not seem at all alarmed at the approach of Crying Oak, which the Indian figured that must mean that these people were friends to the Native Americans.
“What has become of my village, it was here the day before but now is not! Tell me, I will not cry.” stated the stoic Indian.
For a moment the man just looked at the powerful Indian towering over his head. Then catching the gist of what had just been said he replied in very broken Indian tongue.
“Come ye dis aways, Injin!”
The man lead Crying Oak around the town until the reached a drinking house near the town’s center. As they had went the Indian had caught the name of the town, ‘Cuyahoga’. This was the Indian word for Crooked River, there must be surely be a few of his brethren about for the town to be named thus. When they went into the drinking house Crying Oak finally saw a familiar face, it was Stigwanish, the chief’s son! Yet something was amiss, Stigwanish, who was no more than a boy as Crying Oak recalled, now looked only a few years his junior. Still the ever stoic Indian would get the answers he desired. He went up to Stigwanish and clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“Good brother Stigwanish, who was but a lad when last I saw, what has happened? Who are these strange people with their strange devices? Why are they on the land of our village? Tell me brother, I will not cry.”
Stigwanish looked up at Crying Oak in drunken recognition and, through many arduous hours, the stoic Indian managed to divulge a full account out of his intoxicated tribesman. It turned out that Crying Oak had been missing for at least twenty summers, and in that time many things had happened. The old chief had fallen into the Crooked River, caught a chill and died within the year. When Stigwanish became chief he took Mourning Dove as his bride and they had recently had a child. This drove a spike of sorrow into the heart of Crying Oak, but still he would not cry. Then ten years ago the white men came here from across the Endless Lake and traded things for the Indian’s corn. It had taken two years to move the village to the corn fields, for none could lift and carry as much as Crying Oak who could have managed the task alone in half the time.
At first Crying Oak did not believe this, but the final blow was struck when he caught his reflection in a metal beer pitcher. He himself had aged considerably and was now bordering his twilight years, his entire youth had slipped out from under his nose. Crying Oak was very upset about the loss of his youth, but still he did not cry.
Suddenly Mourning Dove came through the door, a papoose strapped to her back. Her beauty was now stunted by the weight of years, and she had attained a tongue like a slaver’s whip. She stood in the doorway, nagging her husband for consuming to much of the white man’s drink, again. Stigwanish in turn grew angrier at her every word until he was shouting back at her. At the climax of the argument Stigwanish took the tomahawk on his belt and in a drunken rage threw it at his wife. Mourning Dove ducked and dodged the missile, but she had not ducked low enough as the projectile struck the papoose on her back and killed the child within. Then there was silence. After a moment Crying Oak spoke, a single tear streaming down his face.
“Now I have earned my name! It has taken the loss of my youth, the loss of my land, my wife, and the life of what once would have been my child. I will leave fully earning the name Crying Oak, this world is not for me any longer.”
Crying Oak ran out of the drinking House and was never seen again. It is said though, that at the spot where the Indian had awoken stands a proud and mighty oak tree, whose leaves will, every so often, drip water, though there will be no rain in the area.
Mourning Dove, realizing that her lost love had returned and then left once more, wept for both Crying Oak and her dead child. From that day on Chief Stigwanish would never drink again, and later in his long life he erected the first totem pole in the valley of the Crooked River. He made it from the wood of a great oak tree, in honor of the tragic story of Crying Oak.
Miss Smith
Enriched Language Arts 10-Period 3
5, Febuary, 2009
The Legend of Crying Oak
It was the year 1670 by the white man’s count and a young Seneca Indian lay on a hill by the Crooked River, concealed by the dense summer undergrowth. The youth, named Crying Oak, had been sent out for the day by the shaman of his tribe. The reason behind this was that Crying Oak was due to be wed to the beautiful Mourning Dove on the morrow and it was not proper for him to view his wife to be before the ceremony. He had been given a wineskin to slake his thirst and parting words to guide his future.
“When you return, you shall weep and earn your name.” the shaman had said.
In spite of these words Crying Oak was proud and he had never cried, nor would he in his future, he assured himself. Crying Oak was a giant amongst men, standing taller than all that lived near him, and he was renowned in his village for the strength he had in his big, broad, shoulders.
For quite some time Crying Oak sat motionless in the foliage, listening to the sounds of the river just a few feet below his current position. Then around about when the sun reached its zenith he took a long drought from the wineskin. Crying Oak immediately felt drowsy and, figuring that the shaman had put a special, ceremonial brew in his drink, he feel into a deep and untroubled sleep as he lay amongst the sheltering underbrush.
When he awoke he noticed several things, first that it was midmorning, second that most of his body was covered with decaying leaves, and finally that the waters of the Crooked River seemed to have receded about a foot or so. He got up and brushed the dead foliage from his body, but the sharp scent of earth clung to his moccasins and leather stockings.
“What strange sorceries be riddle me such?” Crying Oak mused to himself “No matter, these things cannot make me cry!”
Crying oak hastened back to the village, but to his utter amazement it was not to be found! Instead there was a thriving town of white skinned men, with grand log houses and a partially paved cobblestone road. Quite bemused the Indian approached a man close to his position. The man did not seem at all alarmed at the approach of Crying Oak, which the Indian figured that must mean that these people were friends to the Native Americans.
“What has become of my village, it was here the day before but now is not! Tell me, I will not cry.” stated the stoic Indian.
For a moment the man just looked at the powerful Indian towering over his head. Then catching the gist of what had just been said he replied in very broken Indian tongue.
“Come ye dis aways, Injin!”
The man lead Crying Oak around the town until the reached a drinking house near the town’s center. As they had went the Indian had caught the name of the town, ‘Cuyahoga’. This was the Indian word for Crooked River, there must be surely be a few of his brethren about for the town to be named thus. When they went into the drinking house Crying Oak finally saw a familiar face, it was Stigwanish, the chief’s son! Yet something was amiss, Stigwanish, who was no more than a boy as Crying Oak recalled, now looked only a few years his junior. Still the ever stoic Indian would get the answers he desired. He went up to Stigwanish and clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“Good brother Stigwanish, who was but a lad when last I saw, what has happened? Who are these strange people with their strange devices? Why are they on the land of our village? Tell me brother, I will not cry.”
Stigwanish looked up at Crying Oak in drunken recognition and, through many arduous hours, the stoic Indian managed to divulge a full account out of his intoxicated tribesman. It turned out that Crying Oak had been missing for at least twenty summers, and in that time many things had happened. The old chief had fallen into the Crooked River, caught a chill and died within the year. When Stigwanish became chief he took Mourning Dove as his bride and they had recently had a child. This drove a spike of sorrow into the heart of Crying Oak, but still he would not cry. Then ten years ago the white men came here from across the Endless Lake and traded things for the Indian’s corn. It had taken two years to move the village to the corn fields, for none could lift and carry as much as Crying Oak who could have managed the task alone in half the time.
At first Crying Oak did not believe this, but the final blow was struck when he caught his reflection in a metal beer pitcher. He himself had aged considerably and was now bordering his twilight years, his entire youth had slipped out from under his nose. Crying Oak was very upset about the loss of his youth, but still he did not cry.
Suddenly Mourning Dove came through the door, a papoose strapped to her back. Her beauty was now stunted by the weight of years, and she had attained a tongue like a slaver’s whip. She stood in the doorway, nagging her husband for consuming to much of the white man’s drink, again. Stigwanish in turn grew angrier at her every word until he was shouting back at her. At the climax of the argument Stigwanish took the tomahawk on his belt and in a drunken rage threw it at his wife. Mourning Dove ducked and dodged the missile, but she had not ducked low enough as the projectile struck the papoose on her back and killed the child within. Then there was silence. After a moment Crying Oak spoke, a single tear streaming down his face.
“Now I have earned my name! It has taken the loss of my youth, the loss of my land, my wife, and the life of what once would have been my child. I will leave fully earning the name Crying Oak, this world is not for me any longer.”
Crying Oak ran out of the drinking House and was never seen again. It is said though, that at the spot where the Indian had awoken stands a proud and mighty oak tree, whose leaves will, every so often, drip water, though there will be no rain in the area.
Mourning Dove, realizing that her lost love had returned and then left once more, wept for both Crying Oak and her dead child. From that day on Chief Stigwanish would never drink again, and later in his long life he erected the first totem pole in the valley of the Crooked River. He made it from the wood of a great oak tree, in honor of the tragic story of Crying Oak.
