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Title: The Legends of San Francisco

Author: George W. Caldwell

Release date: July 1, 2004 [eBook #6076]

Most recently updated: January 31, 2013

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Schwan, and David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LEGENDS OF SAN FRANCISCO ***

LEGENDS OF SAN FRANCISCO

Other Books by the Same Author:

Legends of Southern California.

Oriental Rambles.

Rainbow Stories.

The Wizzywab.

By George W. Caldwell, M. D.

Dedication.

My San Francisco on her seven hills is smiling,

Beside an opalescent sunset sea;

There is a magic in her bracing air beguiling,

Yet filling all with tireless energy.

The tingling tang of open sea the breeze is giving;

The fog rolls in and drives heat languors out,

And thrills her loyal subjects with the joy of living,

And puts the love of idleness to rout.

When in the valleys, fervent summer heat oppresses,

And gives no, respite night or day,

There is a City that the cooling fog caresses,

Upon the breezy San Francisco Bay.

When winter rains and sun have wrought in fragrant flowers

A multicolored carpet on the land,

A charm is in her circling hills and redwood bowers

That only those who see can understand.

She has a mystic charm in all the changing seasons—

A lure that brings the stranger to her door,

And in these pages I will give the Indian's reasons

For charms and lures, never told before.

The legends of the hills, the fog, the gulls, the waters

Idealize the beautiful and true;

Allow me, therefore, California's Native Daughters,

To dedicate this book of verse to you.

Contents

The Maid of Tamalpais.

The Twin Guardians of the Golden Gate.

The Sea Gulls.

The Islands of the Bay.

The Lake of Merita.

The Maid of Tamalpais.

This she told me in the firelight

As I sat beside her campfire,

In a grove of giant redwoods,

On the slope of Tamalpais.

Old she was, and bent and wrinkled,

Lone survivor of the Tamals,

Ancient tribe of Indian people,

Who have left their name and legend

On the mountain they held sacred.

On the ground she sat and brooded,

With a blanket wrapped around her—

Sat and gazed into the campfire.

On her bronze and furrowed features,

On her hair of snowy whiteness,

Played the shadows and the firelight.

Long she gazed into the embers,

And I feared I had offended

In the question I had asked her.

Then she spoke in measured accents,

Slowly, with a mournful cadence,

And long intervals of silence.

"You have asked me why my people

Will not climb Mount Tamalpais—

Why we hold the mountain sacred.

I am old, and when the Raven

Calls my spirit to the Father,

None will know the ancient story,

Sacred legend of the Tamals.

Therefore, I will tell the story,

I will tell and you shall write it,

Else it will be lost forever;

I will tell it that the paleface

May respect our sacred mountain."

"In the morning of creation

All the world was covered over

With the flood of troubled waters.

Only Beaver and the Turtle

Swam about upon the surface.

Beaver said, 'I'm very weary.'

Turtle said, 'Dive to the bottom.'

Beaver dove and brought up gravel,

Laid it on the back of Turtle;

Dove again and brought a pebble,

Then another and another.

Pebbles grew to rocks and boulders,

As a peak above the waters—

Thus was Mount Diablo fashioned.

Beaver sat upon the mountain,

Gazing out across the waters;

Saw a single feather floating;

Feather grew into an Eagle;

Eagle flew and sat by Beaver.

Long they talked about creation,

Counseled, planned, and reconsidered,

Then they moulded clay with tules;

Beaver placed his hair upon it,

Eagle breathed into its nostrils

Thus Coyote was created.

Coyote barked and sat beside them.

Many creatures were created;

Some with hair, and some with feathers;

Some with scales, or shells, or bristles.

Other peaks and mountain ridges

Then appeared above the waters.

Walls of hills were then continued

North and south, to hold the waters

In a mammoth lake, that, filling

All the Sacramento Valley,

Found its outlet to the ocean

Through the Russian River Canyon.

Round the lake the blazing mountains

Spouted lava and hot ashes;

Casting on the troubled waters

Lurid gleams and purple shadows.

By the lake Coyote wandered—

Sat and howled, for he was lonely,

Lonely for a Man to tame him

Into Dog as a companion.

Then Coyote mixed dry tules

With wet clay and made a figure.

Sun God came and shone upon it;

Spirit came and blew upon it,

And a Man was thus created.

Sun God made the Moon to guard him,

And she stood before his tepee,

Watching while the Sun was sleeping;

But she loved the Sun and followed

Him into the starry heavens,

Always with her face turned to him.

Still she watched the lonely tepee,

And her heart was touched with pity

For the lonely man within it,

So she made a lovely woman,

Gave her constancy, and sent her

On a moonbeam to his tepee,

As his helpmate and companion.

Man then multiplied, and flourished,

Building villages and lording

Over all the other creatures.

On the sunny eastern margin

Of the Bay of San Francisco,

Grew the village of the Tamals;

Fisher folk they were, and gentle,

Seeking not for wars of conquest;

Fishing in the purple waters

From their boats of bark or rawhide;

Wading in the limpid shallows

Seeking oysters, clams and mussels.

In the course of generations

Piles of shells of many banquets,

With the ashes of their campfires,

Formed a mound upon the bay shore.

Shell Mound Park, the people call it,

And they gather in the shadows

Of the ancient oaks for pleasure,

Roasting clams as in the old days

When the Tamals lived upon it.

Gone are now the limpid shallows;

Gone the oysters and the mussels,

And no more are grassy meadows

Dappled with the spreading oak trees;

For great factories, grim and sordid,

Sprawl in squalid blocks around it,

And the smoke of forge and furnace

Rise from stacks into the heavens.

Paleface men with concave glasses,

Learned in lore of printed pages,

Dig into the mounds and gather

Spear and arrow heads and axes,

Broken weapons and utensils

Made of flint, or bone, or seashell.

To the northward, where great boulders

Lie in tumbled piles and masses,

And a Thousand Oaks are clustered,

And the crags upthrust their fingers

Through the meadows of the uplands,

Was another Indian village,

Ancient stronghold of the Tamals.

In the village on the hillside

Men were hunters, brave and fearless,

Skillful with the bow and arrow,

Artful with the snare and deadfall;

Hunting deer and elk and bison

In the open grassy meadows,

Tracking wolf and mountain lion

To their lairs among the redwoods;

Bearing on their backs the trophies

To their camp when night was falling.

In the village maids and matrons

Dressed the furs and tanned the buckskin,

Dried the venison, and traded

With the Shell Mound folks for salmon,

Mussels, clams and abalones,

Ornaments of bone or seashell,

Weapons chipped from flint or jasper.

From the oaks they gathered acorns,

And beneath the fragrant bay trees

And the heavy blooming buckeyes,

Ground the acorns into flour

To be baked upon the hot-stones.

To this day the smoke of campfires

May be traced in caves, and crannies

Where the overhanging cliffsides

Gives protection from the rainstorms.

If you search among the thickets

Of the low widespreading buckeyes

You will find their ancient mortars

In the bedrock still remaining—

Mortar holes ground deep, and polished

By the toil of many women

Pounding, grinding with a pestle

Fashioned from a stream-worn boulder.

Gone are all those ancient people,

Perished now for many ages.

Many oaks have grown and withered,

Many buckeyes bloomed and faded,

Many tribes have fought and conquered,

Lived for many generations,

Then were driven out by others.

Still the mortar holes will linger

As our monuments forever."

Fainter grew the voice, still fainter,

Sinking almost to a whisper,

With a hesitating quaver,

As the picture came before her

Of her disappearing people.

Then I rose and piled more branches

Of the redwood on the campfire,

And the flames and sparks leaped upward,

Lighting up the mournful forest,

Driving back the eerie shadows.

Long she bowed her head in silence,

Then resumed her rhythmic speaking.

In the village lived a maiden,

Fairest of all comely maidens

Ever born among the Tamals;

Fair of face and pure of spirit,

Kind in thought and quick in service

To the young and old and helpless;

Ever eager for her duty,

Ever singing at her labor.

When she sat beneath the buckeyes

Grinding acorns in the mortar,

Humming birds came sipping honey

From the heavy scented blossoms;

Wild birds came and sang their sweetest

Music as they perched above her;

And the Fairies came to greet her

Dressed as Butterflies, and fluttered

Round her head and whispered secrets—

Secrets not revealed to others.

Little wonder that the Chieftain,

Young and brave and wise in counsel,

Loved the maid and wished to take her

As his wife to rule his people.

But she answered him with sadness,

For she loved the youth, 'Beloved,

This is not the time for lovers,

But for warriors to make ready,

For a danger comes upon us.

God has sent a warning message

By the Fairies, and they whispered

To me as I ground the acorns

In the mortar 'neath the buckeyes.

Rally all your braves around you,

Seize your strong bows, fill your quivers

With the long flint-pointed arrows;

Guard the ridges to the eastward

Ere the foe shall fall upon us.'

To the eastward where Diablo

Rears its peak above the fog banks

Drifting landward from the ocean,

Lived a warlike tribe of people.

Fierce they were, and grim and cruel,

Worshiping the Fire Demon

Who is crouching in the mountain.

From their heights they saw the waters

Of the Bay of San Francisco

Lying crystal-clear and purple.

Then no Sacramento River

Poured its flood of silt into it,

For a range of hills continued,

All unbroken, from Diablo

To the distant smoking mountain

Which is now called Saint Helena.

Long they watched the bay and marveled

At its strange, alluring beauty;

Watched it in its changing colors—

In the gray of misty mornings,

In the blue of sunny mid-day,

In the glories of the sunset,

In the silver flood of moonlight—

It enticed and seemed to beckon,

Then, as ever, to the strangers.

Long their Wizards danced, and rattled

With their gourds, to rouse the Demon

Of the Mountain to assist them—

Danced until they fell in frenzy,

Prophesying wealth of plunder.

Warriors danced and chanted war songs,

Stamped and shouted, waved their war clubs,

With the war paint on their bodies,

Black and yellow and vermillion.

Hideous and terrifying

Were they when they took the warpath.

Oh, the terror of their coming!

Oh, the horror of the battle

On the meadows of the uplands!

Forward, by the strength of numbers,

Pressed the Devils of Diablo;

Slowly backward fell the Tamals

To the Stronghold of the Boulders.

When the darkness of the midnight

Fell as a protecting blanket,

Silently my tribe retreated,

Ere the ring should be completed

By the merciless invaders.

All the Tamals started northward—

Men and women, little children—

Through the open, grassy meadows,

Through the forest to the ridges

Circling round the Bay below them.

At the dawning of the morning

They were resting on a hilltop.

To the west the Bay was sleeping

Underneath its misty blanket;

To the east a lake was gleaming

In the rosy light of sunrise.

While they rested on the mountain,

Weary, footsore, and disheartened,

Came pursuing scouts to spy them.

Fierce and bloody was the combat,

All the rocks were stained with crimson.

Then the scouts, or those still living,

Fled to tell their wicked Chieftain

Where to find the fleeing Tamals.

Loud the wail of lamentation

When the Tamals saw their warriors

Who had fallen in the combat

Lying lifeless on the mountain.

Louder still, the cry of anguish

When they found their Maid of Mercy

Helpless now, and sorely wounded.

No more would her strong young shoulders

Bear the wounded braves to safety,

Nor would she withdraw the arrows,

Bind the wounds nor stanch the bleeding.

On the shoulder of the Chieftain

She was carried, for no other

Had such strength and gentle manner.

On his shoulder thus he bore her,

Fleeing northward on the ridges,

Bore her gladly, for he loved her.

All the women were exhausted,

All the children, tired and weeping;

Half the warriors, dead or wounded—

Slow and painful was the progress.

On they fled, but often turning,

Looking backward o'er their shoulders,

Fearful lest the foe o'ertake them

Ere they reached a place of safety.

Came a deadly fear upon them!

'We are lost,' they cried in terror,

For a league behind them, followed

Such a host of men or devils

That they could not hope to conquer.

'We are lost,' they moaned, 'Their number

Is the number of the needles

On the redwoods in the forest;

And they follow as the foxes

Follow rabbits in the open.'

'We shall die, oh, my beloved,'

Said the Chieftain to the maiden.

'And die gladly,' said the maiden,

'If our people may not perish.

As I sat beneath the buckeye

At my mortar, grinding acorns,

Fairy butterflies came to me,

Fluttered round my head and told me

That an enemy was coming;

And I warned you, oh, my lover.'

'Aye, you did, my best beloved.'

'And they promised, oh, my lover,

That our God would save our people

Should I offer up my spirit

As a sacrifice before Him.'

And the young Chief spoke, and answered,

'Life without you would be empty;

Let my spirit travel with you

Through the spaces of the heavens,

To the upper world of spirits.'

'It shall be as you have spoken,'

Said the maiden to her lover,

'And I know that God will answer

With a mighty sign from heaven.

Stoop, and bow your head, my lover,

That my face may turn to heaven.

Mighty Father, save my people,

Take my spirit and my lover's

To the spirit land of lovers;

Lift your hand and strike the mountain!

Cut a chasm wide, between us

And the wicked ones who follow;

Save my people, oh, my Father,

Strike the mountain! Strike the mountain!'

Came a rumble in the distance,

Nearer, louder, terrifying!

God had heard her prayer, and lifted

Up his hand to strike the mountain.

When the mighty blow descended

With the crash of many thunders,

All the mountains rocked and trembled,

Rose and fell, and swayed and shuddered;

And across the Coast Range Mountains

Yawned a chasm, hot and smoking;

Into it careened the hillsides;

Mountains swooned and fell into it.

Through it, as a giant sluiceway,

Rushed the roaring, boiling waters

Of the lake, in tumbling tumult,

Flooding all the bayside lowlands,

Racing through the Golden Gateway

In a cataract stupendous.

Saint Helena burst its crater

With a blast that leveled forests,

And the falling sand and cinders

Buried deep the fallen giants,

To be petrified to agate.

Through the steam and sulphurous vapors,

Flashed the lightning on the mountains,

And the din of quake and thunder

Beat the air until it quivered.

When God, his righteous wrath abating,

Ceased to shake and rend and deluge,

And the last reverberation

Died away into the distance,

And the trade winds from the ocean

Blew away the smoke and vapors,

Those remaining of the Tamals

Gazed with wonder at a mountain

That was standing, new, before them,

For upon it lay the maiden

With her face upturned to heaven,

As it was when she was praying

To her God to save her people.

On her youthful breast and body

Lay a forest, like a mantle,

New and green, and decked with flowers.

And her willing feet were resting

Near the bay and new-made river;

While the Chief, her faithful lover,

Bending 'neath his sacred burden,

Stretched his arms out to the valleys

Where his people would find shelter.

Here for countless generations

We have lived in peace and safety,

Roaming through the wooded valleys,

Hunting on the grassy meadows,

Fishing in the bays and rivers.

Now you know the sacred story

Of the Maid of Tamalpais—

Why no Tamal ever ventured

To the holy crest above us.

Would we tread upon the features

Of the martyred Maid who saved us?

Would we desecrate the rock-tomb

Of our Chief, her well beloved?

There she lies in all her beauty,

Sacred Maid of Tamalpais!

If her eyes should turn from heaven,

She would see across the waters

Piles of tumbled crags and boulders

In the Grove of Thousand Oak Trees,

Where the buckeye trees still blossom

Over mortar holes, half hidden.

Children play with merry laughter

Hide and seek among the boulders.

Even now perhaps, the Fairies

Dressed as butterflies may whisper

Secrets in the ears of children,

If they listen to the voices.

If her eyes should trace the steamers

As they thread the curving channel

Opened by the ancient earthquake,

She would see them pass an island

On whose red and barren summit

She was wounded in the battle.

White men call it Red Rock Island,

Knowing not the crimson color

Is from blood, shed in the battle

Fought upon the lofty summit

Of a mountain that was swallowed

When the mighty chasm opened,

Leaving but its peak projecting

Through the surface of the waters.

There she lies in queenly beauty,

Martyred Maid of Tamalpais,

With her face upturned to heaven,

As when praying, 'Take me, Father;

Save my people; Save the Tamals.'

On her head the snows of winter

Lay a crown of shining crystals.

Fog banks twine their arms about her

To embrace her and caress her.

Passing rainclouds bathe her features

With their tear drops, shed in sorrow,

And the rainbow arches over

With the glories of a halo.

She is first to have the greeting

Of the rising sun, and latest

To receive his goodnight kisses.

On her sides the purple shadows

Linger longest in the twilight.

For her robe the fairest wildflowers

Bloom throughout the changing seasons—

Violets, and pink wild roses,

Blue forget-me-nots, and lilies

Vie to give their sweetest perfumes

To the Maid of Tamalpais.

Lovers climb the sacred mountain,

Roam the hillsides, tread the wildwoods,

Finding there new inspiration,

Hope and happiness, not knowing

That the Maid of Tamalpais

Gives her spirit to all lovers

Who approach her mystic presence.

I, the last of all the Tamals,

Soon will turn my face to heaven

Where my own, my best beloved,

Waits with outstretched arms, to greet me.

Write the story for all people;

It is finished; I have spoken."

Thus she spoke, that ancient woman,

Lone survivor of the Tamals,

By the campfire in the redwoods,

On the slopes of Tamalpais.

The Twin Guardians of the Golden Gate.

Would you know the mystic legend

Of the peaks of San Francisco—

Of the Twin Peaks standing Guardian

Of the gay and careless city,

Ever laughing by the gateway

Of our Golden California?

Would you know what brings the westwind,

With its cool and filmy vapors

Trailing like a scarf of chiffon

Through the narrow Golden Gateway,

Screening shore and hills and harbor,

While the country all around it

Bathes in floods of golden sunshine?

Would you know why great Sea Lions

Flounder on the rocky islands,

Standing by the Golden Gateway?

Why they fight in baffled fury,

Barking ever at the mainland?

Listen then, and I will tell you

As the legend was related

By an ancient Tamal woman,

As she sat beside the campfire

In a grove of giant redwoods

On the slopes of Tamalpais.

"It was long ago, my children,

Long ago, in mystic ages

When the Gods lived near the people,

Who, like infants newly mothered,

Needed care and help and guidance.

As the children call to parents

So the people called to Spirits.

Then the Gods were quick to listen,

Quick to teach them and protect them,

Quick to punish when they trespassed

On the rights of one another.

Near the place where Holy Fathers

Built the Mission of Dolores

Was a village of the Tamals,

Vanished now for many ages.

By it was a singing streamlet,

Where the willows waved their banners;

Round it giant redwoods clustered,

Redolent with forest odors;

Live oaks, bay trees, and madronas

Billowed over plains and hillsides.

Through the forest ranged the hunters,

Seeking game in glen and canyon,

Meat for food, and fur for raiment;

Vanquishing the forest creatures

With flint arrows and stone axes;

Seeking fish in bay and river

With the spear or net of sinew.

On the bay the warriors paddled

In canoes of bark or rawhide,

Or in mighty redwood dugouts

Dared the currents of the narrows

Training warriors to be ready

To defend their shores and harbor.

From the North the foemen threatened,

As an ever-present shadow.

O'er the water came the foemen,

In a mighty fleet of warboats;

Every summer came the foemen,

Came and fought and then retreated.

In his tepee sat the Chieftain

With the Old Men, wise in counsel;

All their hearts were solely troubled—

Every summer brought the foemen,

Those bronze men of fearless courage,

Waxing stronger every season—

Long they counseled with each other;

Would the foemen come and conquer?

Could the Tamals long withstand them?

Thus they questioned in the Council

While they planned their last defenses.

To the Council came the sisters,

Yana fair, and Tana fearless,

Twins, and daughters of the Chieftain,

Came and stood before the wise men,

Came and bowed their heads and waited.

Well the wise men knew the sisters,

Maidens blooming into women,

Loved them for their grace and beauty,

For the joy they radiated,

For the charm that emanated

From their chaste and gentle spirits,

As the perfume that is wafted

From the rose buds newly opened.

Yet the Wise Men gave no welcome,

Turned their eyes from Maids to Chieftain.

"Why, my Daughters, have you ventured

Into this, the warrior's council?

Well you know it is forbidden;

Neither man nor woman enters

When the warriors plan for battle."

"Let us speak," the Maidens answered,

"For we bring a warning message.

As we wandered on the ridges

Gathering the golden poppies

To adorn our Mother's tepee,

We were talking of the danger

From the foemen of the Northland,

When a Maiden stood before us,

Strangely fair, with golden tresses,

Eyes of deep blue like the lupins,

Dressed in garlands made of poppies.

Hand in hand we stood and wondered,

Till the lovely apparition

Smiled and caused our fears to vanish.

'I am the Spirit of the Country,'

Said the Maiden of the Poppies,

'And I choose you, my Twin Daughters,

For the beauty of your bodies,

And the worth of soul within you,

As the saviors of your people,

As the guardians of my harbor.

Take the message to your Chieftain,

That the foe comes from the Northland;

Yet they shall not harm your people

If you stand upon the hilltop

With the talisman I give you.

Take this Magic Iris with you,

Guard it well for every petal

Has a charm that brings an answer

To a prayer that is unselfish,

To a prayer for all the people

That will live around your harbor.

Never, while you guard the hilltop,

Shall a foe invade your country.

Petals three there are; three wishes

Shall be granted when you make them.'

Then the Poppy Maiden vanished,

And we hastened to our village.

Hand in hand, we ran so swiftly

That our feet but touched the flowers;

While above our heads the wild ducks

Flying southward clamored hoarsely,

'They are coming; They are coming!'

Sea gulls, winging from the ocean,

Shrieked their warning, 'They are coming!'

Then we dared to brave your Council

With the message of the Maiden,

And the warning of the seabirds.

'It is well,' the Chieftain answered,

'Daughters with the eyes of springtime

And the faces of the flowers,

It is well. The Gods have marked you

With their sign upon the forehead;

You have stood before a Goddess,

And her spirit is upon you.'

Long the Old Men sat and pondered.

Well they knew the ears of children

Are attuned to hear the voices

Of the Gods and Guardian Spirits.

Well they knew that all wild creatures

Speak to man if one is worthy

To receive their friendly warning;

Knew that seabirds, swift and cunning,

See the foemen while their war boats

Still are far beyond the sea-rim.

Thus they reasoned in their council,

Then they stood before the people

While the Chieftain gave his orders.

'Beat the war drums. Call the warriors.

Man the war canoes, and station

Sentinels upon the headlands

Up the coast-land to Bolinas.

Let them light the lurid war fires,

When they see the foemen coming.'

Swiftly northward raced the sentries

In their light canoes of deerskin—

Through the narrows to Bonita,

On the ocean to Bolinas.

All was tumult in the village;

To each warrior was given

Long bows, strong bows, wrapped with sinews,

Stores of arrows, eagle feathered,

Newly tipped with sharpest flint-heads;

Stone head war clubs, wrapped with rawhide;

Shields of oakwood, tough and heavy.

Women decked the braves with feathers,

Robes of fur, and charms of seashell;

Roused their courage with the stories

Of the prowess of their Fathers;

Cheered with songs of deeds of valor

Of the heroes of the Tamals;

While the children, heavy hearted,

Watched the scene in wide-eyed wonder.

Every day the Chieftain's daughters,

As twin sentinels were standing

On the hill between the valley

And the blue expanse of ocean.

Every day they watched the Morning

Reach his rosy fingers upward,

From behind the eastern mountains,

Painting with an elfin fancy,

Crimson edges on the cloudbanks;

Then erasing and repainting

Them with gold or mauve or amber;

Always changing, as his fancy

Swayed the child to blend the colors;

Till Old Father Sun uprising,

Drove his elfin son to shelter

From the dazzle of his presence.

All day long the faithful sisters

Stood upon the ridge and waited—

Waited while the Sun ascended,

Crossed the zenith, then descended

On his daily westward journey.

Watched him sink into the ocean

As a molten globe of metal;

While the fleecy clouds above him

Caught afire, and blazed in beauty,

Radiating flaming colors

Through the changing clouds, and lighting

O'er the purple sea a pathway

Glinting in a golden glory.

Evening came, and still they waited—

While the heavenly dome turned purple,

And the twinkling stars were lighted,

One by one, until the darkness

Scintillated with their sparkle;

And a milky way of star-dust

Arched across, to hold the heavens

High above the reach of mortals.

Through the night they watched and waited—

While the silver moon was racing

Through the silken clouds, and flooding

All the bay and hills and ocean

With a pale illumination,

Casting moving shadows earthward

When a dark cloud passed before her.

Wild Coyotes broke the silence

Of the midnight with their barking,

And the prowling Wolves crept nearer,

Till the patter of their footsteps

Could be heard in stealthy rushes.

Still the fearless Sisters waited,

Watched the north for signal fires,

And in eager alternation

Held the Magic Yellow Iris.

Came at last the welcome singing

Of the Meadow Lark and Robin,

And above the eastern mountains

Flushed the rose-light of the morning;

Then again the sky was tinted

By the Elf who plays with colors,

And the sleeping poppies wakened

When the sunbeams kissed their eyelids.

From the Heights of Point Bonita

Rose a thread of smoke that lengthened,

Broadened, flaunted like a banner,

Black and ominous of evil.

"They are coming!" Yana whispered,

"See, the signal fires are lighted!

They are coming. Guardian Spirit

Of our native country, save us!"

And she pressed the Yellow Iris

Closely to her throbbing bosom.

Over northern rim of ocean

Came the war canoes by hundreds,

Came until the waters darkened

With the number of the warboats.

Never could the Tamals conquer

Such a multitude of foemen.

Swiftly rose and fell their paddles,

Flashing in the brilliant sunshine,

Trailing scarfs of foam behind them,

As they raced toward the harbor.

Tana searched the far horizon,

Saw the signal fires blazing

On the mountain tops and headlands,

Heard the war drums in the village

Roll in constant wild alarum.

Yana held the Yellow Iris

With the Magic in its petals,

Held and gazed with adoration

On the velvet mystic markings.

Then she plucked a magic petal,

Held it high, and ere it fluttered

To the breeze this prayer was uttered:

'Spirit of our Native Country,

Goddess guarding home and harbor,

Roll the fog-banks o'er the headlands,

Hide the narrows from the foemen;

Bring the west-wind from the ocean,

Drive their boats to crash and shatter

On the rocky surf-bound islands.

Bring the west-wind! Bring the fogbanks!'

From the ocean came the west-wind,

Blowing stronger, growing cooler,

Bringing in protecting fog-banks,

Sweeping landward o'er gray waters,

Flooding through the Golden Gateway,

Rolling over shore and headlands.

Through the fog the boats were racing

For the entrance to the harbor,

When they plunged into the smother

Of the breakers round the islands—

Crashed upon the rocks and splintered.

From the surf the foemen struggled

To the rocks and scrambled on them.

Then the Maiden plucked another

Petal from the Magic Iris,

And she prayed again, 'Oh, Spirit

Of our Native Country, hear us,

Change the foemen to Sea-creatures,

That they never more attack us.'

As the magic petal fluttered

To the ground the foe was changing.

Arms and paddles changed to flippers;

Legs were bound as in a bandage,

And their brown and hairy bodies

Wriggled on the rocks, and crowded,

Barking, fighting one another.

When the danger was averted,

When the enemy was helpless,

Sisters wept, embraced each other,

Thanked the Gods for their deliverance.

Still remained another petal

Of the Magic Yellow Iris.

'One more wish we have, one only.'

Said one sister to the other,

'Would we might remain forever,

As the guardians of the harbor,

To protect it from all foemen,

To invoke the fog and west-wind.'

Then, again The Poppy Maiden

Stood triumphantly before them.

'You have chosen well, my children,

Had you wished for wealth or beauty,

Robes or jewels for adornment,

Or for any selfish purpose,

Then the petals would have fallen

To the earth and lost their Magic.

My twin daughters, ever faithful,

All your thoughts are for your people;

Therefore, you shall be immortal,

Standing on the heights forever,

As the Guardians of the Harbor.

Draw your mantles around your shoulders,

Furs they are, but flowers they shall be.

As my garments are of flowers,

So shall yours be, golden poppies,

Lupins, blue, shall deck your mantle.

Blue and gold shall be your colors—

Blue, for purity of purpose;

Gold, for worth of soul and spirit.

While you stand above the harbor,

While you call the fog and west-wind,

While you wear your cloak of poppies,

Never shall a foeman enter

Through the Golden Gate with war-boats.

Pluck the petal, let it flutter

To the ground. Your wish is granted.

Stand forever, native daughters,

As Twin Peaks, to guard the harbor.'

That was long ago, my children,

When the earth was young, and people

Heard the voices of the Spirits—

Knew the language of the sea-birds.

To this day the ancient warriors

Flounder on the Sea Rock Islands,

Barking, roaring, crowding, fighting,

Near the gateway of the harbor.

Still the Sisters, as the Twin Peaks,

Guard the city and the harbor.

In the summer, at the season

When the ancient foes came southward,

They invoke the cooling west-wind

With its fog, to screen the harbor;

Yet, the sunlight seeks the valley

Where the ancient tepees clustered,

Beaming there in benediction,

While around it lie the shadows.'

That, my children, is the legend

Told beside the evening campfire

By the ancient Tamal woman,

In a grove of giant redwoods,

On the slopes of Tamalpais.

The Sea Gulls.

Round the boat the Sea Gulls hovered,

Soaring on their spreading pinions,

Floating on the air, but turning

Searching eyes upon the people;

Searching, searching, always searching,

Winging, swinging, darting, calling

In their plaintive tones, "Ah-we-a."

By my side my friend, the Tamal,

Stood and gazed upon the Sea Gulls.

Long he gazed in deep abstraction,

Then he said, "They still are searching,

Still are calling to Ah-we-a.

Would you know the Tamal legend

Of Ah-we-a and the Sea Gulls?

Know you, then, that these blue waters

Were not always calm and peaceful.

Once the Sea King, grim and moody,

Held his court within this harbor—

Held his carnivals of beauty,

And his wild and stormy revels.

In the cove of Sausalito,

Where the houses of the paleface

Terrace on the wooded hillside

And the sailboats ride at anchor,

Lived a tribe of fisher people,

Building homes among the crannies

Of the rocks upon the bayshore,

Fishing in the harbor waters

From their light canoes of redwood—

Fishing boldly in defiance

Of the Sea King's fitful anger

At the raiding of his Kingdom

And the slaughter of his subjects.

Oft the Sea King, in reprisal,

Lashed the harbor with his west wind

Till the breakers leaped in frenzy,

Overturning boats and claiming

Many fishermen as victims.

Those who clung in desperation

To their boats and reached the mainland

Told the tale of their encounter

With the Sea King in the tempest.

Through the smother of the surges,

Through the driving rain and fog-banks,

Came the Sea King's boat upon them,

Drawn by floundering sea horses

With their manes of seafoam curling

From the prow and backward trailing.

Through the mist they saw it faintly,

As a ghostly apparition,

Riding down upon the billows—

Phantom ship, at times transparent,

White or gray—to ride them over;

Racing nearer, nearer, nearer,

Then dissolving into vapor;

Or, at times, it darted past them.

Giving glimpses through the fog-banks

Of the Furies at the paddles,

Bending, dipping, throwing surges

From their mighty magic paddles,

While the wake of foaming waters

Seethed and boiled in whirlpool currents.

Long the warfare had continued.

Fishermen must live by fishing,

And the Sea King claimed his victims

Through a strategy of cunning,

Seeking ever to beguile them

To the sea to work his vengeance.

When day dawned in rosy splendor

Calm and still the harbor waters

As a sea of purple satin,

Only wrinkled into ruffles,

Ever widening in a circle

Where the fishes leaped the surface.

Fishermen with song and laughter,

Waved farewell to wives and children,

Paddled off into the silence;

Then, without a sign of warning,

Gales arose and lashed the harbor

Till the waters writhed and tumbled,

Wave on wave, in thundering tumult;

And the Sea King, in his anger,

Dashed the boats, o'erturned and empty,

High upon the rocky seashore

At the feet of wailing women.

Queen Ah-we-a of the Fishers

Mourned the sorrows of her people;

Comforted the weeping widows;

Cared for all the little orphans.

Little wonder that her subjects

Loved the gentle Queen Ah-we-a.

Long the Queen in silence pondered

On the perils of her people.

Long she stood upon the headland

Where the wind-distorted cedars

Cling upon the rocky hillside.

Long she prayed to the Great Spirit

For his guidance and protection.

Long she prayed and watched and waited

Till the moon came up and silvered

All the sea, and cast the shadows

Of the cedars, weird and lonely.

From the harbor came the night winds

Robed in tinsel veils of vapors,

And they whispered in the branches

Of the cedar trees above her—

Whispered of the King, their master,

Whispered terms for ceasing warfare.

Ah-we-a heard the hard conditions,

Bowed her head as in submission.

On her face the resolution

For a sacrifice was graven—

For a sacrifice so noble

That the Spirit in the Heavens

Smiled and promised, in her absence,

To protect her Fisher people.

Morning dawned, with vapors brooding

On the silent glassy waters.

Queen Ah-we-a called her people

To the sandy shore, and standing

In her light canoe of deer skin,

Told them of her nightlong vigil.

'Now I go,' she said in parting,

'To the great boat of the Sea King,

There to plead that storms be banished,

Banished from our bay forever.

The Great Spirit will protect you

Till I come again to lead you.'

Then her paddle dipped the water,

And her light canoe of deer skin

Went into the fog and faded,

Faded to a shadow outline,

Then was gone into the silence.

Long and watchfully the people

Waited for the Queen Ah-we-a.

Then a great fear came upon them.

'She is lost. The wicked Sea King

Holds her hostage on his war boat.'

Thus they mourned, and prayed the Father,

The Great Spirit, that he give them

Wings to fly above the waters

Where the Sea King could not reach them.

'Give us wings,' they prayed 'On pinions

Would we fly to find Ah-we-a.

Change us, Father, into sea birds.

Let us search and find Ah-we-a,

And at last, when we have found her,

Change us back to Fisher People.

In the flicker of an eyelid,

All the fisher men and women

And their children changed to Sea Gulls.

And the Father, ever mindful

Of his promise to Ah-we-a,

Put into the hearts of mortals

Universal love for Sea Gulls.

Laws have even been enacted

To protect them from the hunters.

To this day the faithful Sea Gulls

Search the Bay, now free from tempests;

Search the ferry boats and steamers,

Soaring by on spreading pinions,

Peering into people's faces,

Searching for their Queen Ah-we-a.

Winging, swinging, darting, calling

In their plaintive tones, 'Ah-we-a;'

For they know that when they find her

They will change to human beings,

Subjects of the Queen Ah-we-a.

Thus was told the ancient legend

Of Ah-we-a and the Sea Gulls.

The Islands of the Bay.

Tamalpais wrapped her mantle

Of the clouds about her shoulders.

Gray the day, and melancholy,

For December rains were falling,

Falling in a steady downpour.

Mournful branches of the redwoods,

Drooping, dripping, swayed above us;

Moaned above the lonely cabin

On the slope of Tamalpais.

Raindrops pattered on the shingles,

Beat against the eastern windows,

Flooding down the glass in torrents.

Through the veil of slanting rainfall.

Could be seen the distant harbor,

With its flecks of fleecy vapors

Floating, merging, disappearing.

In the fireplace of the cabin,

Logs and knots of pine were blazing,

Snapping with the pitch imprisoned;

Flocks of sparks were flying upward;

Flags of flame were waving welcome,

Warming, cheering, exorcising

Ghosts of Gloom and eerie phantoms;

Bringing brightness and the odor

Of the burning pitch that lingers

As the incense of the forests.

By the fireplace sat the Tamal,

Lone survivor of her people—

Sat and listened to the patter

Of the raindrops on the shingles,

To the soughing of the west-wind

In the branches of the redwoods.

Long she gazed upon the harbor,

Lying leaden-gray below us.

Then, she told this ancient legend—

Legend of her tribe, the Tamals,

Legend of an ancient deluge.

"Do you see," she said, "the Islands

Of the Albatross and Beaver?

By another name you call them.

One is crested by a prison,

Grim and somber, melancholy;

One is gay with flags and bunting,

Ringing with the martial music

Of your sailor boys in training;

Yet, if you observe them closely,

You will see in one the profile

Of an Albatross, a giant

Sea bird, sleeping on the water;

While the other is a Beaver

Facing always to the eastward.

When the noon sun casts its shadows

You may see his stony features

From the deck of ferry steamers

Near the pier that wades the shallows

On the harbor's eastern border,

Tamals call them Sacred Islands

Of the Albatross and Beaver,

For upon their backs were carried

All the Tamals through the deluge.

Down the ages came the legend,

Told by Fathers to the children,

Told on rainy winter evenings

Round the campfires of the Tamals.

From the ocean rolled the rain-clouds,

Came unceasingly the rain-clouds.

Black and heavy were the rain-clouds,

Lighted only by the flashes

Of the lightning playing in them.

Fell the rain as falls the torrents

In the waterfalls of rivers,

Fell through days of murky darkness,

Fell through nights of inky blackness,

Fell for days and nights unnumbered.

Waters covered plains and valleys.

On the coast the sea was rising,

Flooding all the lower country,

Creeping up the mountain foothills;

Still the rains in floods descended.

Up the slopes of Tamalpais

Climbed the people of the Tamals,

While behind them crept the waters,

Covering the hills and mountains.

One by one the peaks were swallowed

In the flood of rising waters.

On the gray and sullen waters

Floated logs and trees uprooted;

On the trunks and in the branches

Cowered creatures of the forests,

Then the people prayed the Spirit—

Prayed the Father in the Heavens—

That he save his tribe, the Tamals,

Ere the waters rise above them;

And the Spirit heard their pleading,

Sent the Albatross and Beaver,

Giant messengers from Heaven,

As the Saviors of the Tamals.

Albatross came from the westward,

Through the lightning of the storm-clouds,

Growing larger, coming nearer,

Till the thunder of his pinions

Echoed from the cliffs above them,

Then he rested on the waters.

From the eastward came the Beaver,

Swimming through the turbid waters,

Growing, growing, ever growing,

Till he had become a Giant,

On whose back the tribe of Tamals

Could find refuge from the waters.

Then a voice spoke from the storm-clouds,

Spoke in mighty tones of thunder:

'I have heard your prayer, Oh Tamals;

You shall live, and shall re-people

All the world with men and women.

I will give to them the spirit

Of the Albatross who searches

Distant seas on tireless pinions.

I will give to them the wisdom

Of the Beaver who with patience

Labors, building and constructing.

On the Albatross and Beaver

You shall ride, until the waters

Shall return to their own borders.'

On the Albatross and Beaver

All the Tamals rode in safety,

While the swirling deluge covered

All the foothills and the mountains.

Then the northwind, dry and scorching,

Drove the rain-clouds to the ocean,

And the sun-rays, piercing through them,

Glinted on the troubled waters.

Came the peak of Tamalpais

As an island to the surface;

Down the slopes the flood receded

Baring forests to the sunlight,

Then the grass-lands of the valleys

And the old familiar coastline.

With rejoicing all the Tamals

Sought their homes along the bayshore,

Singing thanks to the Great Spirit,

Singing praises to their saviors,

Giant Albatross and Beaver,

Resting then, within the harbor.

Then again, in voice of thunder,

Spoke the Spirit from the Heavens;

'Let the Totem of the Tamals

Be the Albatross and Beaver;

Search and Labor, be their motto;

And, lest children of their children

May forget their mighty saviors,

Giant Albatross and Beaver

Shall be changed to rocky Islands—

Monuments to stand forever,

In the Harbor of the Tamals.'

Thus the ancient Tamal woman

Told the Legend of the Islands,

While December rains were falling,

And the fragrant pine was burning

In the fireplace of the cabin

On the slope of Tamalpais.

The Lake of Merita.

The lengthening shadows of evening

Were creeping on Mount Tamalpais,

Painting with purple the valleys,

Gilding the ridges and summit.

Green were the groves of the redwoods,

Lacing their branches together;

Through them the last rays of sunlight

Pierced to the carpet of needles.

Only the tinkling of water,

Only the breeze in the branches,

Only the call of the blue jays

Broke the mysterious silence.

Far through the canyon I wandered,

Far to her camp in the redwoods—

The home of the Indian woman,

Wrinkled and old and decrepit,

Learned in the lore of the Tamals.

Nearing her camp-fire, I saw her,

And halted in fear, lest I trespass.

She sat like a Priestess of Forests,

Chanting with weird intonations,

Slowly, with strange repetitions,

Swaying in rhythmical measure.

Round her the wild forest creatures

Gathered and sat at attention.

Birds ceased their anthems of evening,

Fluttered to branches above her,

Listened as if fascinated.

The singing was hushed when she saw me;

Away fled the wild things to cover.

"Welcome, my friend," said the Tamal.

"A seat at my camp-fire is waiting."

Her welcome was hearty and friendly,

But out of the shade of the forests

Came chattering, chirping and barking,

Resenting, reproaching, complaining.

I sat by the camp-fire and listened

In wonder. The scene was uncanny.

At last, when the plaints had subsided,

Or faded away in the distance,

I said , "Tell me, friend, by what magic

Are wild creatures called to your camp-fire.

Is it a secret you cherish?

May you reveal it to others?"

She gazed in the flickering embers,

Dreamily gazed in the embers,

Then she replied, "You have heard me

Singing the song of Merita,

The magical song of Merita,

Merita, the friend of wild creatures,

Wearers of fur or of feathers,

Creatures of forest and mountain,

Birds of the sea and the marshes.

I will tell you the tale of Merita,

Merita, the daughter of Yado,

Chief of the fishermen people

Who lived by the Lake of the Oak Trees,

Far to the east of the harbor.

Slender and tall was Merita,

Dark were her eyes, and her tresses

Glossy and black as the feathers

That gleam on the wings of the raven.

Gentle and kind was Merita,

Serving the young and the aged,

Nursing the sick and the wounded,

Cheering when sorrow was breaking

The heart of some one of her people.

The Gods taught Merita the language

Of birds that made nests in the oak trees,

Of water fowl thronging the tules,

Of all furry creatures that peopled

The hills and the valleys around them.

They came from afar when she called them,

Called with her song, and they hastened

To tell her their troubles and sorrows.

She bound up their wounds and caressed them,

And told them the wiles of the hunters.

Wandering one day to the northward,

She came to a creek where strawberries,

Ripe and delicious were growing

Beside a small stream that cascaded

Down from the Peak of the Grizzlies.

Refreshing herself with the berries

She sat in the shade of the live oaks,

The ancient and widespreading live oaks,

And called to the wild forest creatures,

Singing the Song of Merita.

'Come, come, come, birds of the air,

For I love you.

Come, come, come, tell how you fare,

For I love you.

Come, come, come, wild creatures, know

That I love you.

Come, come, come, tell me your woe,

For I love you.

Come, come, come, you will I serve,

For I love you.

Come, come, come, you well deserve,

And I love you.

Come, come, come, I bring you aid,

For I love you.

Come, come, come, be not afraid,

For I love you.

Come, come, come—come—come—come.'

Before the monotonous chanting

Was finished, the Blue Jays and Robins,

Pigeons, and Bluebirds, and Blackbirds

Flew to the branches above her,

And tipping their heads to observe her

Opened their bills in complaining.

Down from the canyon a white fawn

Came with a shaft in her shoulder,

Fell at the feet of Merita,

Bleating her plea for protection.

Quickly the arrow was taken

Out of her quivering shoulder.

Then came the hunter, pursuing—

Halted, and gazed in amazement.

'I am Zarando, the Tamal,

Chief of the Thousand Oaks People.

Pardon me, if I have wounded

A pet of the beautiful stranger.'

Under the arm of Merita

The frightened fawn crept for protection.

'I am Merita, the daughter

Of Yado, the Chief of the Fishers

Who live by the Lake of the Oak Trees.

The Fawn is my friend, and she answers

My call to all wild forest creatures.'

'I have a call,' said Zarando,

'A call to decoy the wild creatures

Into the range of my arrows,

Yet few are deceived by the pretense.

Teach me your call, oh, Merita.

'Nay, nay, Zarando; love only

Will draw the wild creatures around you.

Love does not change cannot injure—

The shaft is not aimed at a loved one.

If you would draw the wild creatures,

Love them, and guard them from danger.'

'I am a hunter, Merita,

And yet would I gladly abandon

The bow and the trap to secure

The charm that the Great Spirit gives you.

Tell me the secret, Merita,

Teach me to speak in the language

Of all the wild creatures around you;

Teach me to know and to love them.'

Then were the first lessons given,

Where now gather thousands of students,

Beneath the old widespreading live oaks

That stand by the stream in the Campus.

There the first Teacher and Pupil,

Merita and young Chief Zarando,

Met on the mornings that followed,

Met for the love of the study,

And then for the love of each other.

No more were the Tamals and Fishers

Rivals, at war with each other;

United they lived as one people—

One people around the great harbor.

Zarando, their chief ruled with justice;

Merita, their Queen ruled with mercy.

Their village grew up where the oak trees

Stand on a point in the Lakelet.

The water birds came at her calling,

And thronged on the Lake of Merita,

Holding conventions, and heeding

The judgments she gave in their quarrels.

No one disturbed them nor harmed them;

There was a refuge from danger.

It is said that souls of the lovers

Still live in the oak trees that border

The shore of the Lake of Merita;

And that water-birds come at their calling,

And throng, unafraid, on the waters,

Hearing the song of Merita:

'Come, come, come, birds of the air,

For I love you.

Come, come, come, tell how you fare,

For I love you.

Come, come, come, I bring you aid,

For I love you.

Come, come, come, be not afraid,

For I love you.'

Come, come, come,

Come,

Come,

Come."

The End

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Table of Contents

LEGENDS OF SAN FRANCISCO

Dedication.

Contents

The Maid of Tamalpais.

The Twin Guardians of the Golden Gate.

The Sea Gulls.

The Islands of the Bay.

The Lake of Merita.

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