The Little Navajo Herder

IN WINTER

Reading edition

Illustration from The Little Navajo Herder

IN WINTER

Page

Snow 39

There Is No Food 41

The Dogs Are Hungry 43

Melting Snow Water 44

Night 47

Story Telling 48

It-Is-Twisted 50

Pawn 51

Morning 53

Shoveling the Snow 54

Cat's Cradles 55

Father Comes Back 56

Supper 58

Sleep 59

Morning Sun 60

Going to the Sing 61

The Sing 63

The Betting 66

The Race 68

Going Home 70

SNOW

My mother's land is white with snow.

The sandwash and the waterhole,

the dry grass patches and the

cornfield hide away

under the white blanket,

under the snow blanket

that covers the land.

The air is filled

with falling snow,

thick snow,

soft snow

falling,

falling.

40Beautiful Mountain

and the red rock canyons

hide their faces

in snow clouds.

The wind cries.

It piles the snow

in drift banks

against the poles

of the sheep corral.

It pushes against the door

of my mother's hogan,

and it cries.

The wind cries out there

in the snow and the cold.

My mother's hogan is cold.

Snow blows down the smoke hole.

Water drops on the fire.

The wet wood smokes

and keeps its flames to itself.

The sun

has not shown his face

to tell us

what time of day it is.

I do not like to ask my mother,

"Is it noon now?" or

"Is it almost night?"

because

she might think

I wanted it to be time to eat.

She might think

I wanted food.

THERE IS NO FOOD

There is no food.

There is no flour nor cornmeal

to make into bread.

There is no coffee

that my mother could boil

for us to drink.

There is no food.

The corn my father planted

in his field

is gone.

We ate it.

42There was so little.

The corn pile in the storehouse

was not high enough

to last for long.

It is gone.

Now all of it is gone.

There is no food.

There is food

at the Trading Post

in sacks and in boxes,

in bins and in cans

on the shelf.

There is food at the Trading Post,

but the Trading Post

is far away

and snowdrifts

and snow clouds

are heavy between.

There is food at the Trading Post

but my father has nothing left

of the hard, round money

that he must give

to the Trader

for the food.

There is no food here

in my mother's hogan.

When it is time to eat,

we talk of other things,

but not of hunger.

This thing called hunger

is a pain

that sits inside me.

At first it was little,

but now

it grows bigger

and bigger.

It hurts me

to be hungry.

THE DOGS ARE HUNGRY

The dogs are hungry, too.

They crowd in the hogan.

The black one

is not sleeping now.

He lies with his head

on his paws

and looks at nothing.

The yellow one whimpers.

He has worked hard,

but there is no food.

The gray shadow dog stays outside

close to the tree trunk

making no sound

asking for nothing.

I think she knows

nobody wants her.

MELTING SNOW WATER

The sheep are wet and cold.

They are hungry, too.

If the snow keeps falling,

it will be bad for the sheep.

Perhaps

that is why the wind cries.

Perhaps

the wind is sorry

for the sheep.

That is what I think.

My mother talks to my father.

Together

they go out to shovel snow.

The ruffles on my mother's skirts

make pretty marks on the top

of the snow whiteness.

My mother and my father

shovel a round place

clean of snow

out near the sheep corral.

45They will build a fire

to melt snow into water

to give to the sheep.

It takes much wood

to make a fire

to melt snow into water,

but if the sheep have water

to drink

they do not hunger so much.

When the round place

is clear of snow,

my mother comes into the hogan

for dry wood

to make the outdoor fire.

She picks a stick

from our small pile

beside the fire.

She picks another

until she has a little armful.

My mother picks them up slowly

for our pile is so small.

My father comes into the hogan.

He stamps his feet.

Little hills of dirty snow

melt slowly by them

on the hogan floor.

46It takes a lot of snow

in my mother's washtub

to melt enough water

for the sheep.

When my mother comes again

into the hogan

she is tired.

Her poor face

is dark with cold.

I put my arms

around my mother's knees.

It is the only way I know

to show her

that I am sorry she is cold.

NIGHT

Night is slow in coming,

but at last it comes

moving through the snowstorm.

Coyotes howl, far away.

Nearby the wind cries.

The wet wood smokes.

Snow water drips down

through the smoke hole.

STORY TELLING

Then

my father tells us stories.

Long stories

made up of many words.

His words have power.

They have strength.

They seem to hold me.

They seem to warm me.

They seem to feed me.

My father's words,

they comfort me.

His words have power.

My father tells

The Star Story.

"When the world was being made,

being made."

My father tells us,

"When the Gods were

placing stars,

the stars,

the stars in patterns

in the sky,

coyote stole the star bag."

49Coyote spilled the stars out

in the sky,

helter skelter in the sky,

when the world was being made.

Softly

my father tells it,

the story of the stars.

Outside,

the wind

and the night

push against

my mother's hogan door.

Outside,

big flakes of snow

fall thickly,

fall softly,

fall steadily.

Inside,

snow water drips

down the smoke hole

and the words of

my father's voice

drop softly

into the quiet

of my mother's hogan.

"IT-IS-TWISTED"

The Star Story

made my mother think

of the string game,

"It-Is-Twisted."

She said that the Spider People

gave it to us

to use in winter evenings.

My mother showed us

how to make the game.

She made

Twin-Stars and Many-Stars,

Big-Star and Horned-Star

with pieces of string.

PAWN

Just now,

I heard myself saying,

"I want some bread."

My father is not talking now.

He is looking at me.

My mother is looking at me.

They do not know it was not I,

but this hunger pain inside me

that said those words,

"I want some bread."

They do not know that,

and I do not know

how to tell them.

My father sits still.

He sits quietly.

He is thinking.

My mother looks down

at her hands

where they are resting

in the folds of her skirt.

Outside,

the wind cries

to my thinking.

52Slowly

my father takes his concho belt

from about his waist.

Slowly

his fingers touch the belt,

counting,

counting the conchos.

Slowly

my mother takes her coral string

from about her neck.

She looks at it.

Slowly

she puts it back again

around her neck.

Then

my mother

takes from her finger

her largest turquoise ring.

My father puts his concho belt

upon the floor.

My mother puts her turquoise ring

upon the floor.

The concho belt

and the turquoise ring

make a splash of color

in the gray-lighted hogan.

He will pawn them

because our food

is getting low.

The concho belt

and the turquoise ring

are for pawn.

They are for pawn.

Pawn to the Trader

for food.

Pawn to the Trader

that we may eat.

Our hard goods,

our possessions

we give them

for salt

and for flour.

They are for pawn.

Who knows

when we can buy them back.

The snow water drops

from the smoke hole

like tears.

The wind cries.

Quickly

my father sings

a funny song

to make laughter come

to my mother and me.

MORNING

The wind lies still.

It has not gone away

I know,

for I can feel it

lying there outside

hiding in the snow.

The wind lies still

behind the snowdrifts,

but sometimes

it starts up

with a low cry,

then falls again to hide.

Cold bends over the land.

The white feathers of snow

fall slower and slower.

My mother and my father

get up early.

My mother will kill a sheep

so my father can eat

something

before he starts

for the Trading Post.

My father waits

for my mother

to butcher the sheep

and to cook a piece

for his breakfast.

Then my father finds his horse.

He ties an empty flour sack

behind his saddle.

He wraps his blanket about him

and leaning his body

against the storm

he rides to the Trading Post.

My father rides

into the snow-filled world.

His blanket and his horse

are the only colors

moving

through the white.

Snow comes into my heart

filling it with cold

when I see

my father ride away.

SHOVELING SNOW

For a little while

I sit in the hogan

thinking of my father

riding along the snowy trail

to the Trading Post.

Snow stops falling.

Cold blows its blue breath

across the white.

I help my mother shovel snow.

We make a path to the sheep corral

and to my grandmother's hogan.

The snow, so soft to feel,

is hard to shovel.

The cold slaps at my face.

It traps my hands and my feet

in icy feeling.

My mother takes me

into the hogan.

She rubs my face and hands

and my feet with snow.

Soon

little hot pains

come to play

with my cold fingers

and my cold toes.

Soon the icy feeling goes away.

CAT'S CRADLES

The day moves slowly.

My father does not come back

along the trail.

It is far to the Trading Post.

The snow is deep.

I think of my father

and his concho belt.

I look at my mother's finger.

One finger looks bare

without its turquoise ring.

I pull my sleeve down

over my bracelet.

Perhaps

I should have given it

to my father.

My grandmother comes to see us.

She brings a piece of bread

for me

and for my mother

to eat with our meat.

She brings a piece of string.

She shows me how

to make Cat's Cradles.

She shows me how

to make "It-Is-Twisted."

We make Bird's-Nest and Butterflies

and Coyotes-Running-Apart

with the piece of string.

FATHER COMES BACK

We hear my father singing

as he rides along

the snowy trail.

My grandmother goes to her hogan

and my mother and I,

we stand together,

laughing.

We stand together

outside our door,

happy because

my father comes back again.

Behind my father's saddle

is tied

the flour sack filled with food.

It is not empty now,

but a sack

of bumps and bumps,

and heavy looking.

In front of him

my father carries

a dry wood box

that the Trader gave him.

57My mother takes the sack of food.

I take the dry wood box.

My father takes the saddle

from his horse.

We go into the hogan

with our bundles in our arms.

My mother breaks the box

with her foot.

She breaks the pieces across her knee.

She feeds them to the fire.

The dry wood box

makes the fire flame dance

in the hogan fire.

My mother puts meat to cook.

She mixes flour and water,

a little ball of lard,

a little pinch of salt

in our round tin bowl.

She takes some out

and pats it flat,

and pats it round,

and pats it thin,

and throws it in

a kettle full of boiling fat.

This hunger pain inside me

is bigger now than I am.

It is the smell of cooking food

that makes it grow, I think.

Soon the fried bread

in the hot fat

swells big and brown.

Soon the meat

in the stew pot

makes bubbling noises.

Coffee boils

smelling strong and good.

The hunger pain

is now so big

I cannot understand

Why I do not see it.

SUPPER

Now we are eating

the good food.

We eat slowly.

We eat a long time.

The hunger pain is gone.

It went somewhere,

but I do not know when,

it left so quickly.

My father tells us

that the wife of Tall-Man's brother

suffers from something.

She is sick.

My father tells us

that tomorrow

there will be a Sing

for this woman

who has sickness.

We will go,

he says,

if the sun shines tomorrow.

We will go to the hogan

of the wife of Tall-Man's brother.

SLEEP

Now that I am warm

and have no pain

and feel well fed

with my mother's good cooking,

I feel sleepy

and glad.

Lying on my blanket bed

on the floor of the hogan,

I say to myself

over and over,

"If the sun shines tomorrow

we will go to the Sing."

MORNING SUN

Last night went quickly

with sleeping.

It is tomorrow

now.

I open my eyes

to a beautiful world

of sun and snow.

Everywhere I look

the snow shines

as if someone

had sprinkled it

with broken bits of stars.

My father says,

"snow is good for the land.

When the sun melts it

the thirsty sand

drinks in the snow water."

Grass patches show again.

They look fresh and clean.

The goats hurry about

eating all they can.

Even the sheep move

more quickly,

eating.

GOING TO THE SING

My father goes for dry wood.

He has to go to the foothills

to get it.

My mother cooks bread and meat.

I sit by the door in the sunshine

and think about the Sing.

My grandmother comes

to my mother's hogan.

She will look after the sheep

while we are gone to the Sing.

The sun shines.

Soon we will go

to the Sing,

the Sing.

After awhile

my father comes back with

the wagon.

He piles the wood near the hogan.

He says he is ready

to go to the Sing

and we are ready, too.

62It is not far.

Not long after

the sun has finished with the day

we will get there.

We will get to the hogan

of the wife of Tall-Man's brother.

We will be at the Sing,

the Sing,

the Sing.

The ruts in the road

are deep

and frozen.

The wheels of the wagon

have a song of their own.

I sit in the back of the wagon

in a nest made of blankets.

I listen to the song

of the rolling wagon wheels.

My father sits on the wagon seat.

He is driving his horses.

My mother sits beside him.

Straight and tall

my mother sits

on the wagon seat

beside my father.

My father sings

as he drives along.

He is happy.

He sings, "Now is winter.

Thunder sleeps.

Falls the snow.

Thunder sleeps.

Grass is gone.

Thunder sleeps.

Birds are gone.

Thunder sleeps.

Warmth is gone from the sands,

from the red rocks,

from the canyons.

Thunder sleeps.

It sleeps."

In my father's wagon

we go.

Behind my father's horses

we go.

On the trail of the Holy Songs

we go

to hear the voices of the Gods.

THE SING

It will be a long time

before the night sky bends down

and the stars hang low

and the supper fires

of the camping people

dot the night.

Our wagon

comes within the circles

of supper fires,

comes within the circle

of firelight,

and I see all the People

who have come to the Sing.

There are many People here.

There are many horses here.

There are many wagons here.

There is one truck.

It makes me happy to see

all of the People

walking around

and standing and sitting.

It makes me happy to see

all the colors that there are

in the skirts of the women

in the shirts of the men

and in the blankets

that all the People wear.

I can see

the horses,

all the horses.

I can see a race horse

that belongs to a man

my uncle knows.

After the Sing is over,

the men will race their horses.

My father will bet

which horse will win.

And then

perhaps

he will win

a better concho belt

than the one

he has in pawn

to the Trader.

There is a new hogan

built just for the Sing.

There are some shelters

built just for the Sing,

and at one side

is the Cook Shade

where all kinds of foods

are cooking.

The smell of food

makes me happy.

64I think

it is good

to be happy

when food is near.

As it gets darker

more fires are lighted

and within the circle

a big one burns.

Smoke gets in my eyes

and I can taste it

in my mouth.

In the folds of my mother's blanket,

in the warmth of my

mother's blanket,

in the quiet of my

mother's blanket,

close to her heart

I sleep

and awaken

to hear the Gods,

the Singers of Songs.

65Now is the time

for the singing.

Now is the time

for the songs.

We go,

we go,

on the Holy Trail of Song.

We go,

we go,

to hear the voices of the Gods.

They say,

on the path of the rainbow,

they say,

on the bridge of the lightening,

they say

on the trail of pollen

went the Elder Brother,

Reared-in-the-Mountains,

Young Man,

Chief.

We go to hear them say it.

Look! Look!

they say,

the Gods are walking.

The Gods are walking.

Follow the trail of song.

Hu-Hu-Hu-Hu.

Look! Look!

they say,

the Gods are dancing.

The Gods are dancing.

Follow the trail of song.

Hu-Hu-Hu-Hu.

Look! Look!

they say,

the Gods are singing.

The Gods are singing.

Follow the trail of song.

Hu-Hu-Hu-Hu.

It is finished.

The Sing is finished.

Dawn light is here.

Gray light is here.

Morning is here.

Day is here.

The sun comes again

to warm the world.

The Sing is finished.

It is finished.

Finished.

THE BETTING

The men go for horses

that have walked away

to find grass to eat.

The women put blankets

and food in the wagons.

My uncle tells my father

to wait awhile

because

my uncle says

he knows a man

who has a horse

that can win a race.

All the men stand around.

They talk together

about this horse.

My father gets the things

out of the wagon

that my mother has put in it.

He is going to bet them

on this horse

that my uncle says

can win a race.

67The Trader comes.

He does not like the horse

my uncle knows.

He puts up a hundred dollars

against the horse.

All the Indian men

take off their concho belts

and rings and turquoise

and bowguards and blankets.

They throw them on the ground

to make a pile of things

as much as a hundred dollars.

They say,

"We will run

to that place

and back."

They mount their horses.

They line them up.

One man stands by

the pool of things

that are being bet

against the hundred dollars.

With another man

my father bets his bowguard

against a concho belt

on that horse

my uncle knows.

The men choose a flat place

to run the race.

THE RACE

The starter takes his hat off.

He lifts it up.

He holds it there.

He drops it.

They are off.

They are running together.

No horse is in front.

No horse is behind.

They are together.

Together.

Running, running.

The black one that the Trader likes

stretches out,

running,

gets in front,

running,

running.

Sand flies.

People shout.

The People shout.

Now comes the horse

my uncle knows.

69There he is,

there he is,

in front,

away in front.

He has won the race.

The horse my uncle knows

has won the race.

The horses come back.

They are sweating.

Their sides go in and out

just like my blouse

goes in and out.

We are tired,

the horses and I are tired.

It takes some running

to win a race.

GOING HOME

The horse race is finished.

My father has a concho belt

and money in his pocket.

Now we go back

on the home trail.

Back to the hogan.

Back to the sheep.

Everything is finished.

We have listened

to the Holy Songs.

We have walked

on the Holy Trail.

It is finished.

Our hearts are good.

All around us is good.

We ride along

on the home trail.

It is finished.