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                       DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR

                      Oscar L. Chapman, Secretary


                      UNITED STATES INDIAN SERVICE

                      Dillon S. Myer, Commissioner


                           EDUCATION DIVISION

                        Willard W. Beatty, Chief


                         Authorized by Congress

                          Printing Department
                           Haskell Institute

                                 Price
                                  .25

                           September, 1951—5M




                             LITTLE NAVAJO
                                 HERDER


                               ANN CLARK

[Illustration]

                     Illustrated by HOKE DENETSOSIE

                      UNITED STATES INDIAN SERVICE

                   HASKELL INSTITUTE—LAWRENCE, KANSAS




                          LITTLE NAVAJO HERDER


In Little Navajo Herder, we have brought together in one volume the
pictured story of a year in the life of a little Navajo girl, which
originally appeared in four separate books. In the first edition, which
was prepared for classroom use in Federal Indian schools, the stories
appeared in both English and Navajo. However, the popularity of Little
Herder was not limited to the child readers of her own tribe. She has
found her way into the hearts of Indian children throughout the nation.
The universality of her appeal is indicated by increasing interest in
her story by non-Indian children in home and school. Selections from her
books have found their way into dozens of anthologies. This popularity
with those who read only English has dictated this single volume edition
in English. Again the delightful drawings by Hoke Denetsosie, a
full-blood Navajo artist, are used.

Little Navajo Herder bids fair to find a permanent place in children's
literature, as has Mrs. Clark's earlier volume on Pueblo life—"In My
Mother's House." This book is illustrated by a Pueblo artist, Velerio
Herrera, and is published by Viking Press.

Other Indian stories by Mrs. Clark have been published by the Indian
Service for use in Indian schools. A complete list may be obtained from
Haskell Institute, Lawrence, Kansas.




                               IN AUTUMN


[Illustration]




                               IN AUTUMN


                                           Page

                         Home Land            3

                         The Hogan            4

                         Night Corral         5

                         The Cornfield        6

                         My Mother            7

                         My Father            8

                         Possessions          9

                         The Horses          10

                         The Sheep           11

                         The Goats           12

                         The Lambs           13

                         The Trading Post    14

                         Selling             15

                         The Silversmith     17

                         Turquoise           18

                         It Is Dry           19

                         Sorting the Wool    20

                         Cleaning the Wool   21

                         Carding the Wool    22

                         Spinning            23

                         Autumn              25

                         Dyeing              27

                         Weaving             29

                         Learning To Weave   30

                         Flood               32

                         Sun                 33

                         Herding             34

[Illustration]


                               HOME LAND

                   The land around my mother's hogan
                     is big.
                   It is still.
                   It has walls of red rocks.
                   And way, far off
                     the sky comes down
                     to touch the sands.
                   Blue sky is above me.
                   Yellow sand is beneath me.
                   The sheep are around me.
                   My mother's hogan is near.

[Illustration]


                               THE HOGAN

                     My mother's hogan is round
                       and earth-color.
                     Its floor is smooth and hard.
                     It has a friendly fire
                       and an open door.
                     It is my home.
                     I live happily
                       in my mother's hogan.

[Illustration]


                              NIGHT CORRAL

                      The night corral is fenced
                        with poles.
                      It is the home for the sheep
                        and the goats
                        when darkness comes
                        to my mother's land.

[Illustration]


                             THE CORNFIELD

                  The cornfield is fenced with poles.

                  My mother works in the cornfield.
                  My father works in the cornfield.

                  While they are working
                    I walk among the corn plants.

                  I sing to the tall tasseled corn.

                  In the middle
                    of all these known things
                    stands my mother's hogan
                    with its open door.

[Illustration]


                               MY MOTHER

                    My mother is sun browned color.
                    Her eyes are dark.
                    Her hair shines black.
                    My mother is good to look at,
                      but I like her hands the best.
                    They are beautiful.
                    They are strong and quick
                      at working,
                      but when they touch my hands
                      they are slow moving
                      and gentle.

[Illustration]


                               MY FATHER

                      My father is tall.
                      He is strong.
                      He is brave.
                      He hunts and he rides
                        and he sings.
                      He coaxes the corn
                        and the squash plants
                        to grow
                        out of the sand-dry earth.
                      My father has magic
                        in his finger tips.
                      He can turn
                        flat pieces of silver
                        into things of beauty.
                      Sometimes
                        I hide in the wide folds
                        of my mother's skirts
                        and look out at my father.


                              POSSESSIONS

                     I have black hair.
                     I have white teeth.
                     My hands are brown
                       with many fingers.
                     My feet are brown
                       with many toes.
                     My arms are brown
                       and strong.
                     My legs are brown
                       and swift.
                     I have two eyes.
                     They show me how things look.
                     I have two ears.
                     They bring sounds
                       to stay with me
                       for a little while.
                     I have two names,
                       a War Name
                       for just me to know
                       but not to use,
                       and a nickname
                       for everyone to use
                       for every day.
                     But with all these things
                       I still am only
                       one little girl.
                     Isn't it strange?

[Illustration]


                               THE HORSES

                        I see my father's horses
                          running in the wind.
                        I feel little
                          standing here
                          when the wind
                          and the horses
                          run by.

[Illustration]


                               THE SHEEP

                       Of all the kinds of sheep,
                         Navaho sheep
                         give the best wool
                         for weaving.

                       My mother says
                         that is why
                         they are Navaho sheep,
                         because they know best
                         the needs of The People.

[Illustration]


                               THE GOATS

                       Goats have long whiskers.
                       They have long faces.
                       They have long legs.
                       Goats are funny, I think.

[Illustration]


                               THE LAMBS

                   Now that it is autumn,
                     the lambs
                     that were babies in the spring,
                     have grown.
                   They are almost as tall
                     as their mothers.

                   My father takes the lambs
                     in his wagon
                     to the trading post.
                   He takes them to sell
                     to the trader.

[Illustration]


                            THE TRADING POST

                    Hosteen White Man
                      has the trading post.
                    He has hard things on the shelf.
                    He has soft things on the wall.
                    And in a jar
                      he has red stick candy
                      that he keeps just for me.

                    Hosteen White Man
                      at the trading post
                      is such a good man.
                    Sometimes, I forget he is not
                      one of The People.

[Illustration]


                                SELLING

                       In his wagon
                         my father drives
                         to the trading post.
                       He takes the lambs
                         and he takes me, too.

                       He wants me to know
                         about selling.

                       He tells me that sometimes
                         he trades the lambs,
                         and sometimes
                         he gives them in payment
                         for a debt.


                 This time
                   he will sell them
                   to the trader.

                 When we get to the trading post
                   the trader looks at the lambs.
                 Then he tells my father
                   how much he will pay.
                 I wonder if the lambs
                   like to have my father
                   sell them to the trader.

                 My father sells the lambs
                   for hard round money
                   to Hosteen White Man
                   at the trading post.
                 Then he chooses cans of food
                   to put into his wagon,
                   and he gives Hosteen White Man
                   some of the round hard money
                   back again.

                 My father calls this selling,
                   but I think
                   it is a game
                   they play together,
                   Hosteen White Man and
                   my father at the trading post.

                 My father likes this game of selling.
                 He did not tell me, but, someway,
                 I know that he likes it.

[Illustration]


                            THE SILVERSMITH

                    My father sits before his forge
                      melting bars of silver
                      and turning them
                      into silver raindrops
                      and silver cloud designs.

                    Somehow,
                      my father has caught the wind
                      within his bellows
                      and when he lets it go
                      its breath
                      turns the silver
                      to red earth color.

                    Its breath cools the silver
                      until it is hard
                      like something made
                      of gray water
                      and then turned to stone.

                    Today my father sang
                      as he worked
                      at making a bracelet
                      for my arm.
                    His song
                      flowed into the silver circle
                      making it a circle of song.


                               TURQUOISE

                    Turquoise is sky.
                    Turquoise is still water.
                    Turquoise is color-blue
                      and color-green
                      that someone
                      somewhere
                      has caught
                      and turned to stone.

                    Sometimes, turquoise
                      is trapped in silver,
                      and sometimes, in small beads
                      running along a white string
                      like beauty following
                      a straight trail.

[Illustration]


                               IT IS DRY

                        My father says
                          over and over,
                          "It is dry.
                        It is too dry."

                        My father means
                          there has been no rain
                          to fill the rain pools
                          for the thirsty sheep.

[Illustration]


                            SORTING THE WOOL

                   I am helping my mother
                     sort the wool.

                   This pile we will keep
                     to spin into yarn for weaving
                     because its strands
                     are long and unbroken.

                   This pile we will sell
                     to the trader.
                   Its strands are broken and short.

                   The trader will buy it,
                     but he will not pay as much
                     as if it were all long.

                   I wish that all our wool
                     was of long, unbroken strands.

                   I like to sort the wool.
                   It is good to feel its softness,
                     like making words for something
                     my heart has always known.

[Illustration]


                           CLEANING THE WOOL

                    I go with my mother
                      to beat the wool.
                    We get the little sticks
                      and burrs out of it.
                    We put the wool
                      on a flat rock.
                    We beat the wool
                      with yucca sticks.
                    I have a little yucca stick
                      like my mother's big one.
                    It takes my mother and me
                      a long time to clean the wool.

[Illustration]


                            CARDING THE WOOL

                   I sit with my mother
                     under the juniper tree.
                   I watch her card wool
                     with her towcards.

                   My mother's towcards
                     are flat pieces of wood
                     with strong handles
                     and with wire teeth.
                   My mother buys her towcards
                     from the trader
                     at the trading post.

                   With her towcards
                     she pulls the wool thin.

                   She stretches it in white sheets
                     like snow mist in winter.
                   She bunches it in soft rolls
                     like white clouds in summer.

                   Under my mother's towcards
                     the gray wool turns white.
                   The matted wool turns fluffy
                     and soft,
                     and light as baby eagle down.

                   I like to sit with my mother
                     under the juniper tree.
                   I like to watch her card the wool
                     with her towcards.

[Illustration]


                                SPINNING

                       My mother's spindle
                         is a slender stick
                         on a hardwood whorl.

                       Under her fingers
                         it spins like a dancer,
                         winding itself
                         in twisted yarn.

                       Under her fingers
                         it twists the wool
                         into straight beauty
                         like a trail of pollen,
                         like a trail of song.


                    My hands are not strong enough
                      to card, very well.
                    My fingers are not swift enough
                      to spin, very well.
                    But my heart knows perfectly
                      how it is done.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]


                                 AUTUMN

                    Now that autumn is here,
                      the flowers and the plants
                      give themselves to us
                      for winter will not need them.

                    The pumpkins are rusty color
                      with brown and green patches.
                    They are ripe.
                    Ripe is such a good word.
                    I like to say it.

                    All the plants are ripe
                      and beautiful with color
                      now that autumn is here.

                    Soon my mother will go
                      to the mountains
                      to gather plants for dyes,
                      and plants for food,
                      and plants for medicine.
                    If I were bigger
                      she would take me with her.
                    She does take me
                      when we go
                      to places near the hogan.

                    After heavy frost
                      my father will go
                      to the mountains
                      to gather the pinyons.

                    This year he will go without us.
                    He will go with some other men
                      in a truck
                      that belongs to the trader.

                    My mother does not like this.
                    She thinks
                      my father should take us
                      with him
                      when he goes for pinyons.

[Illustration]


                                 DYEING

                   With flower plants
                     and bark and roots
                     and minerals and water
                     and fire,
                     my mother changes
                     the colors of her yarns.

                   My mother puts the dye plants
                     into the dye kettle
                     over the fire.

                   Slowly the water
                     in the kettle
                     changes its color.

                   My mother puts white yarn
                     into this dye water.
                   She boils it over the fire.
                   She stirs it with a stick.
                   It bubbles and bubbles.
                   It gives a good smell
                     like plants after rain.

                   For a little time
                     my mother boils the yarn
                     in the dye water,
                     and then she takes it out again.
                   It is no longer white.
                   It has changed color.

                    In this way
                      my mother changes the colors
                      of her yarns
                      to look like
                      brown earth in morning
                      or yellow sand at mid-day.

                    She changes the colors
                      of her yarns
                      to look like
                      black cliffs at sunset,
                      or black like the night,
                      and black like the dark clouds
                      of male rain.

                    I help to gather the flowers
                      and the bark and the roots
                      and the minerals.

                    I help to carry the water
                      from the rain pool
                      by the red rocks.

                    I help to make the fire
                      with little twigs.

                    I look and look.

                    I see the water and the plants.

                    I see the yarn in the water
                      but I do not see
                      the magic
                      that I think
                      my mother must use
                      to change her yarns
                      to colors.

                    When I tell this
                      to my mother,
                      she laughs at me.

                    She says she has no magic
                      in her dye kettle.

                    She says the plants
                      in her dye kettle
                      are the things
                      which give colors
                      to her yarns.

                    So now,
                      I have learned a new thing.

[Illustration]


                                WEAVING

                    When my mother sits
                      on her sheepskin,
                      weaving a blanket on her loom
                      I think it is like a song.

                    The warp threads
                      are the drum beats,
                      strong sounds
                      underneath.

                    The colored yarns
                      are the singing words
                      weaving through
                      the drum beats.

                    When the blanket is finished
                      it is like a finished song.

                    The warp
                      and the drum beats,
                      the colored wools
                      and the singing words
                      are forgotten.

                    Only
                      the pattern
                      of color
                      and of sound
                      is left.

[Illustration]


                           LEARNING TO WEAVE

                     My mother took me in her arms.
                     We sat together at her loom.
                     She took my hands
                       to guide them
                       along the weaving way.

                     She showed them how to weave.

                     We did not weave
                       straight across the loom.
                     That is not our way.

                     We wove with one color
                       for a little way up.

                     And then with another color
                       for a little way up.

                     We kept the edges straight.

                     We wove not too tight
                       and not too loose
                       and pounded it down,
                       pounded it down,
                       pounded it.

                     But when I told my father,
                       "See, I wove this blanket,"
                       my mother spoke sharply.

                     "We do not say
                       things that are not true,"
                       she told me.

                     I hid my face away
                       from the sharp words of
                       my mother,
                       but soon my mother's hand
                       came gently
                       to touch my hair.

[Illustration]


                                 FLOOD

                    Rain comes hard and black.

                    It fills the arroyos
                      with yellow water
                      running in anger.

                    Great pieces of sand bank
                      on the sides of the arroyos
                      slide into the water
                      with little tired noises
                      and are lost for always.

                    The rain pools fill with water,
                      rain water,
                      fresh and clean and cold.

[Illustration]


                                  SUN

                   Sun comes now
                     to comfort the land
                     that the rain has frightened.

                   My father says,
                     "Sun takes the rain water
                     from the thirsty land
                     back to the sky too soon."

                   But my mother and I,
                     we are glad the sun comes soon.

                   Sun does not mean
                     to rob the land of water.

                   Sun means only to warm it again.

[Illustration]


                                HERDING

                    Today I go with my mother.

                    I go with her to drive the sheep
                      for I must learn to tend
                      the flock.

                    It is my work.

                    The way is long.

                    The sand is hot.

                    The arroyos are deep.

                    It takes many steps
                      to keep up with my mother.

                    It takes many steps
                      to keep up with the sheep.

                    My mother waits for me.

                    My mother takes my hand.

                    She calls me
                      Little Herder of the Sheep.

                    And so we walk
                      across the sand.

                    We walk
                      till the day is done,
                      till the sun goes
                      and the stars
                      are almost ready
                      to come.

                    We walk across the sand.

                    We walk to the water hole
                      when day is at the middle.

                    We walk to the night corral
                      when day is at the close,
                      the sheep,
                      my mother
                      and my mother's Little Herder.

                    Before the hogan fire,
                      when night has come,
                      my father sings,
                      my mother whispers,
                      "Come sit beside me
                      Little Herder."

                    I like that name.

                    From now till always
                      I want to be
                      my mother's Little Herder.




                               IN WINTER


[Illustration]




                               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

[Illustration]


                                  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.

                   Beautiful 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.

[Illustration]


                            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.

                   There 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.

[Illustration]


                          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.

[Illustration]


                           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.

                    They 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.

                    It 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.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]


                                 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.

[Illustration]


                             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."

                    Coyote 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.

[Illustration]


                            "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.

[Illustration]


                                  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
                     the wind cries
                     to my thinking.

                   Slowly
                     my father takes his concho belt
                     from about his waist.

                   Slowly
                     his fingers touch the belt,
                     counting,
                     counting,
                     counting the conchos.

                   Slowly
                     my mother takes her coral string
                     from about her neck.

                   She looks at it.

                   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.

[Illustration]


                             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.

[Illustration]


                             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.

[Illustration]


                           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.

                 My 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.

[Illustration]


                                 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.

[Illustration]


                                 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."

[Illustration]


                              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.

[Illustration]


                           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.

                  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.

                  It 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.

[Illustration]


                                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.

                  I 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.

                   Now 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,
                     they say,
                     the Gods are walking.

                   The Gods are walking.

                   Follow the trail of song.

                   Hu-Hu-Hu-Hu.

                   Look! Look!
                     they say,
                     they say,
                     the Gods are dancing.

                   The Gods are dancing.

                   Follow the trail of song.

                   Hu-Hu-Hu-Hu.

                   Look! Look!
                     they say,
                     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.

[Illustration]


                              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.

                    The 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.

[Illustration]


                                THE RACE

                  The starter takes his hat off.
                  He lifts it up.
                  He lifts it up.
                  He holds it there.
                  He drops it.
                  They are off.
                  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,
                    running,
                    gets in front,
                    running,
                    running.

                  Sand flies.

                  People shout.

                  The People shout.

                  Now comes the horse
                    my uncle knows.

                     There he is,
                       there he is,
                       in front,
                       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.

[Illustration]


                               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.




                               IN SPRING


[Illustration]




                               IN SPRING


                                            Page
                       Morning                73

                       The Hogan              74

                       Breakfast              75

                       Possessions            76

                       Sheep Corral           78

                       The Puppy              79

                       The Waterhole          80

                       The Field              81

                       Little Lambs           82

                       Herding                83

                       Little Bells           85

                       Lambs In the Snow      86

                       The Wind               88

                       Noon                   90

                       Thinking               91

                       Old Grandfather Goat   92

                       Baby Goats             93

                       Afternoon              94

                       Sunset                 95

                       Greedy Goat            96

                       Beautiful Mountain     97

                       Meetings               98

                       Going Home            100

                       Night                 101

[Illustration]


                                MORNING

                    This morning,
                      when I crawled
                      from under my blanket,
                      when I stood
                      before my mother's hogan door,
                      outside looked
                      as if it had been crying.

                    The sky was hanging heavy
                      with gray tears.

                    I stood at the door
                      of my mother's hogan
                      and looked out
                      at the gray, sad morning.

                    My father came.

                    He stood beside us.

                    He spoke
                      in a happy way
                      to me
                      and to my mother.

                    Then the gray tears
                      on the sky's face
                      melted.

                    The clouds pushed away
                      and the sun
                      smiled through them.

                    Now it is gray again,
                      but I cannot forget
                      that when my father spoke
                      the sun came
                      and looked down
                      upon us.

[Illustration]


                               THE HOGAN

                      My mother's hogan is dry
                        against the gray mists
                        of morning.

                      My mother's hogan is warm
                        against the gray cold
                        of morning.

                      I sit in the middle
                        of its rounded walls,
                        walls that my father built
                        of juniper and good earth.

                      Walls that my father blessed
                        with song and corn pollen.

                      Here in the middle
                        of my mother's hogan
                        I sit
                        because I am happy.

[Illustration]


                               BREAKFAST

                      On the fire
                        in the middle of her hogan
                        my mother cooks food.

                      My mother
                        makes fried bread
                        and coffee,
                        and she cooks mutton ribs
                        over the coals.

                      My father
                        and I
                        and my mother,
                        we sit on the floor
                        together,
                        and we eat
                        the good food
                        that my mother
                        has cooked for us.

[Illustration]


                              POSSESSIONS

                    We have many things.

                    My mother
                      has many sheep
                      and goats
                      and her hogan
                      and the things
                      of the hogan
                      and me.

                    My father
                      has many horses.

                    On his land
                      he has many horses.

                    He has a wagon
                      near the horse corral.

                    Inside my mother's hogan
                      my father keeps his gun,
                      and outside
                      he hangs his sheepskin
                      and his saddle
                      and his blanket.

                    And I
                      have my mother
                      and my father,
                      three baby lambs
                      and a cat
                      with a long tail.

                    I have a tree
                      that I know.

                    It is a little tree.

                    It is a crooked tree
                      on the top of a hill.

                    It knows me, too,
                      I think,
                      because it bends down low
                      to let me climb it
                      to hide away.

                    Behind my mother's hogan
                      is Beautiful Mountain.

                    It is mine,
                      I know,
                      because always
                      it is looking at me
                      to make me happy.

                    We have many things.

                    All of us
                      have many things.

                    One day
                      my father told me
                      that all The People
                      had possessions.

                    He said,
                      "Sheep and horses
                      for the men and the women
                      and land for all.

                    That is enough."

                    My father said this.

                    But I think
                      there should be more
                      than sheep and horses
                      and land for all.

                    There should be little girls
                      for little girls to play with.

                    That would be enough,
                      I think.

[Illustration]


                              SHEEP CORRAL

                     Near my mother's hogan
                       is the sheep corral,
                       a hard packed place
                       fenced with poles.

                     There is a tree
                       for shade.

                     There is a shelter
                       for lambs
                       in the sheep corral.

                     The sheep stand together
                       in their corral.

                     They stand close
                       to each other.

                     I think
                       sheep like to know
                       that they are many.

                     Sometimes
                       I think that way.

                     I think
                       that there are many children
                       all around me,
                       all about me.

                     When I am herding
                       and I cannot see my mother,
                       it is good
                       to play
                       that many children
                       stand together with me,
                       and that all outside
                       is my corral.

[Illustration]


                               THE PUPPY

                    Far from the hogan
                      in a dry sand wash
                      I found the gray dog
                      and a new baby puppy
                      gray with black spots.

                    Poor little puppy,
                      it crawled to me
                      crying.

                    Thin little baby,
                      its pink cold nose
                      found my hand.

                    Soft baby puppy,
                      it was so little
                      it made me feel gentle
                      and strong
                      like my mother.

                    When I picked it up,
                      the gray mother dog
                      did not growl.

                    She was glad for me
                      to want her puppy.

                    She thumped her tail.

                    Listen,
                      you gray pup with black spots,
                      I will teach you
                      to watch the sheep
                      so that always
                      there will be a place for you
                      in our hogan.

[Illustration]


                             THE WATERHOLE

                        The waterhole hides away
                          behind the red rocks,
                          but my sheep
                          know where to find it.

                        Their little feet
                          have made a deep trail
                          from the corral
                          to the waterhole.

[Illustration]


                               THE FIELD

                   In a little delta
                     of seepage water
                     near the waterhole
                     is a small place
                     that my father has fenced
                     to make a home
                     for the corn,
                     for the squash
                     and the melons.

                   It is too cold now,
                     but soon,
                     when the snow melts
                     and hides away in the warm sand,
                     my father will go to his field.

                   There he will make
                     the soil ready for planting.

                   He will break through
                     the hard crust of winter
                     and turn up toward the sun
                     little lumps of fresh earth.

                   I like to go with my father
                     to his field
                     because
                     I like the feel and the smell
                     of new earth
                     when it first sees the sun.

                   I want my father to take me
                     with him
                     when he goes to plant the corn
                     because
                     I forget
                     how he does it.

[Illustration]


                              LITTLE LAMBS

                      The little lambs are born.

                      Near the waterhole
                        my mother makes shelters
                        of green boughs
                        for the mother sheep.

                      There
                        in the shelters
                        the little lambs are born.

                      The green boughs
                        stand close together,
                        they do not let the snow
                        nor the wind
                        nor the sand
                        come in
                        to hurt the lambs.

                      Soon the lambs
                        will be big enough
                        to play with me.

[Illustration]


                                HERDING

                       All day I herd
                         my mother's sheep.

                       The sheep and I,
                         we have a way of going
                         that is always the same.

                       From the corral we go
                         to the waterhole
                         and through the arroyo
                         to the sagebrush
                         then back again.

                       Outside is round
                         like the sheep corral.

                       Outside is round
                         like my mother's hogan,
                         but it is bigger.

                       Outside is big,
                         big,
                         so big.

                       Sometimes
                         when I am alone
                         with my mother's sheep,
                         I am afraid.

                      I cannot say
                        with words
                        the things
                        that make me afraid
                        because I do not know
                        what they are.

                      But sometimes
                        outside is so still
                        and big
                        and empty
                        and I am so little.

                      The red rocks
                        are so high
                        and Beautiful Mountain
                        behind my mother's hogan
                        seems far away.

                      Nothing walks with me,
                        but the sheep,
                        just the sheep,
                        and I am so little
                        walking along
                        in the big outside.

                      I am so little,
                        I am afraid.

                      And then
                        near by
                        I see my mother
                        at her hogan door.

                      The red rocks
                        seem to bend down
                        to look at me
                        in a good way
                        and Beautiful Mountain
                        comes closer.

                      All things are good again
                        because
                        my mother is near me.

                      I am not afraid.

                      Today is cold.

                      There is wind
                        and snow
                        and sand
                        and always wind.

                      I take the sheep
                        to the waterhole
                        and the wind goes with us.

[Illustration]


                              LITTLE BELLS

                      I have little bells
                        on my belt fringe.

                      Little bells,
                        silver bells,
                        hanging on my belt fringe.

                      My mother has a tin can
                        filled with stones.

                      She rattles it
                        to tell the sheep
                        to hurry.

                      But I have little bells
                        tied to my belt fringe.

                      When I run
                        the little bells laugh
                        and say to the sheep,
                        "Hurry,
                        hurry."

[Illustration]


                           LAMBS IN THE SNOW

                  Today
                    the cold comes
                    in gray clouds
                    of blowing snow.

                  The little lambs
                    stand close to their mothers.

                  They think
                    the cold has come to stay.

                  Yesterday the sky was blue
                    and the sun warmed the land.

                  The lambs do not know
                    that sometimes
                    cold days make mistakes
                    and come again
                    after they should have gone away.

                  They do not know
                    that tomorrow will be warm again.

                    They have not been here
                      long enough
                      to know these things
                      and their mothers
                      have not told them.

                    My mother
                      is watching the lambs.

                    She will not let them
                      get too cold.

                    My father says,
                      "Next year
                      I will try the white-man's way
                      of breeding the sheep.

                    Then the lambs
                      will be born later,
                      when summer has come to stay."

                    My mother says, "Yes,
                      next year
                      we will try that way."

[Illustration]


                                THE WIND

                  There are many things
                    about the wind
                    that I do not know.

                  I have not seen the wind,
                    and no one has told me
                    where the wind lives,
                    or where it is going
                    when I hear it
                    and when I feel it
                    rushing by.

                  And something more
                    I do not know about the wind.

                  I do not know if it is angry
                    or if it is playing
                    and just doing the things it does
                    for fun.

                  Sometimes
                    the wind gathers the sand
                    into whirlwinds
                    and makes them dance
                    over the flat lands
                    until they are tired
                    and lie down
                    to get their breath.

                  Sometimes
                    the wind bends the wild grass
                    down to the ground,
                    and makes the sagebrush
                    bow its head
                    as if a giant moccasin
                    had stepped on them
                    in passing.

                  Today the wind makes the
                    tumbleweeds
                    look like sheep
                    jumping off high banks
                    and racing up arroyos
                    with no dog to guard them,
                    with no herder to guide them.

                  Poor tumbleweeds are frightened
                    because
                    they do not know where to go.

                  I want someone to tell me
                    if the wind is angry
                    or if it is playing with me
                    and racing with me
                    and my many skirts
                    across the sand.

                  When the wind blows
                    my long skirts,
                    my many skirts
                    are in a hurry
                    to get to the hogan
                    where the wind
                    cannot push them.

                  They pull me along
                    when I am walking
                    and my feet
                    have a hard time
                    to keep up
                    with my skirts.

[Illustration]


                                  NOON

                    Now it is middle-time of day.

                    The sheep stand still.

                    The shadows sit under the trees.

                    Everything is resting,
                      the sun
                      and the sheep
                      and the shadows.

                    I, too, rest.

                    And I look at Beautiful Mountain
                      behind my mother's hogan.

                    I am thinking about something.

[Illustration]


                                THINKING

                     Earth,
                       they are saying
                       that you are tired.

                     They are saying
                       that for too long
                       you have given life
                       to the sheep
                       and The People.

                     I am only little.

                     I cannot do big things,
                       but I can do this for you.

                     I can take my sheep
                       to new pastures.

                     I can take them
                       the long way
                       around the arroyos,
                       not through them,
                       when we go to the waterhole.

                     This way
                       their little feet,
                       their sharp pointed feet,
                       will not make the cuts
                       across your face
                       grow deeper.

                     This way
                       the worn pastures
                       can sleep a little
                       and grow new grass again.

                     I can do this
                       to heal your cuts,
                       to make you
                       not so tired.

                     Earth, my mother,
                       do you understand?

[Illustration]


                          OLD GRANDFATHER GOAT

                        Grandfather Goat
                          stands on the hilltop,
                          shaking his whiskers,
                          chewing something
                          and looking wise.

                        Sometimes
                          when I ask him things
                          he looks at me
                          as if he knew.

                        Perhaps he does.

[Illustration]


                               BABY GOATS

                   Baby goats
                     always are playing,
                     climbing up
                     and jumping down.

                   This small one
                     always stands
                     on the top of the storehouse.

                   He knows
                     there are things to eat inside,
                     I think.

[Illustration]


                               AFTERNOON

                       Afternoon is long.

                       The sun goes slowly
                         across the sky.

                       The sheep walk slowly,
                         feeding.

                       I see them against the sky
                         in a long, slow line.

                       I whisper to the wind
                         to blow the sun
                         and the sheep
                         a little
                         to make them hurry.

                       But it blows
                         only the clouds
                         and the sand
                         and me.

[Illustration]


                                 SUNSET

                      Just now
                        I watched the sun going.

                      It took a long time
                        to say goodbye.

                      I think it knew
                        that the land
                        and the things
                        of the land
                        were sorry
                        it had to go.

                      It said goodbye
                        in such a good way.

                      Just for a little time
                        it made the sky
                        and the rocks
                        and the sand
                        like itself
                        to let them know
                        how it feels
                        to be sun.

                      Then it went away
                        and all things
                        were still
                        because the sun had gone.

[Illustration]


                              GREEDY GOAT

                        The sheep know
                          that the day is over,
                          but Grandfather Goat
                          stays behind
                          to push his whiskers
                          high up in a tree
                          for one last bite.

                        Old Greedy
                          Grandfather Goat.

[Illustration]


                           BEAUTIFUL MOUNTAIN

                        Beautiful Mountain
                          looks so blue
                          and so cold
                          and so lonely
                          now that the sun
                          and the sheep
                          and I
                          are going.

                        If it were nearer to me
                          and small,
                          I could bring it
                          into my mother's hogan
                          under my blanket.

                        Then I need not leave
                          Beautiful Mountain
                          out there by itself
                          in the night.

[Illustration]


                                MEETINGS

                       For a long time
                         there have been meetings
                         of many men
                         for many days.

                       At the meetings
                         there is talking,
                         talking,
                         talking.

                       Some this way.

                       Some that way.

                       In the morning
                         when my father
                         leaves for meeting
                         he says to us,
                         "When I come here again
                         then I will know
                         if it is best
                         to have many sheep
                         or few sheep,
                         to use the land
                         or let it sleep."

                   But
                     when my father
                     comes home from meeting
                     he does not know
                     which talking-way to follow.

                   Tonight
                     when my father
                     came home from meeting
                     he just sat, looking
                     and looking.

                   My mother gave him coffee
                     and bread and mutton,
                     but my father just sat,
                     looking.

                   Then my mother
                     spoke to me.

                   She said,
                     "A meeting is like rain.

                   When there is little talk,
                     now and then,
                     here and there,
                     it is good.

                   It makes thoughts grow
                     as little rains make corn grow.

                   But big talk, too much,
                     is like a flood
                     taking things of long standing
                     before it."

                   My mother
                     said this to me,
                     but I think
                     she wanted my father
                     to hear it.

[Illustration]


                               GOING HOME

                     After the sun has gone,
                       my mother's sheep
                       and I,
                       we walk together, slowly,
                       to my mother's hogan
                       and the corral.

                     Most all the day
                       my mother
                       from her hogan door
                       has watched me
                       and the sheep
                       to see
                       that no harm came to us.

                     And now
                       my mother comes to meet us.

                     She comes to welcome us
                       as if we had been gone
                       a long way,
                       a long time.

                     Sometimes
                       my father's singing
                       comes to meet us
                       across the sandwash.

                     It comes to meet us
                       to sing us home.

                     Sometimes,
                       the smoke
                       from the supper fire
                       comes to meet us
                       across the dark blue
                       of the night sky.

                     For me the hogan is waiting
                       and the corral
                       waits for the sheep.

[Illustration]


                                 NIGHT

                        Night is outside
                          in his black blanket.

                        I hear him
                          talking with the wind.

                        I do not know him.

                        He is outside.

                         I am here
                           in my mother's hogan
                           warm in my sheepskin
                           close to my mother.

                         The things I know
                           are around me
                           like a blanket,
                           keeping me safe
                           from those things
                           which are strange.

                         Keeping me safe.

[Illustration]




                               IN SUMMER


[Illustration]




                               IN SUMMER


                                             Page

                      Today                   105

                      Packing                 106

                      Goodbye To My Hogan     107

                      Goodbye                 108

                      Ready To Go             109

                      Goodbye Gray Cat        110

                      Across the Sand         111

                      Goodbye To Grandmother  112

                      Riding                  113

                      Noon in the Sagebrush   114

                      Night Camp              115

                      Up the Trail            116

                      Summer Range            117

                      The Lake                118

                      Shelter                 119

                      The Sheep Corral        120

                      Dawn                    121

                      Morning Prayer          123

                      The Sheep               124

                      The Goats               126

                      Herding                 127

                      Noon on the Mesa        130

                      Afternoon               131

                      Playmates               132

                      Possessions             134

                      Storm                   135

                      Lightning               136

                      Fire                    137

                      Rain                    138

                      Evening                 139

                      Supper                  141

                      Talking                 143

                      Sheep Dipping           145

                      Bedtime                 146

                      The Star Song           147

                      The Artist              149


                                 TODAY

                  Today
                    we leave my mother's hogan
                    my mother's winter hogan.

                  We leave the shelter of its
                    rounded walls.

                  We leave its friendly center fire.

                  We drive our sheep to the mountains.

                  For the sheep,
                    there is grass and shade
                    and water,
                    flowing water
                    and water standing still,
                    in the mountains.

                  There is no wind.

                  There is no sand
                    up there.

[Illustration]


                                PACKING

                   My mother's possessions
                     we tie on the pack horses,
                     her loom parts
                     and her wool yarns,
                     her cooking pots,
                     her blanket
                     and my blanket
                     and the water jug,
                     white sacks filled with food,
                     cans of food,
                     cornmeal and wheat flour,
                     coffee and sugar.

                   My mother's possessions,
                     we tie them all on the
                     pack horses.

                   The packs must be steady.

                   The ropes must be tight.

                   The knots must be strong.

                   I cannot pack the horses,
                     I am too little,
                     but I can bring the possessions
                     to my father and my uncle.

                   I am big enough for that.


                          GOODBYE TO MY HOGAN

                     My mother's hogan,
                       I feel safe
                       with your rounded walls
                       about me.

                     But now I must leave you.
                       I must leave your fire
                       and your door.

                     The sheep need me.

                     I must go with them
                       to a place they know,
                       but that is strange to me.

                     I put my moccasins,
                       my precious moccasins,
                       by your fireplace, my hogan,
                       so you will not be lonely
                       while I am gone.


                                GOODBYE

                    Land
                      around my mother's hogan
                      and sheep trail
                      and arroyo
                      and waterhole,
                      sleep in the sun
                      this summer.

                    Rest well
                      for my sheep
                      will not be here
                      to deepen the trail and arroyo
                      with their little sharp feet.

                    They will not be here
                      to eat the short grass,
                      to drink the stored water.

                    Sleep,
                      rest well,
                      and be ready for our return.

[Illustration]


                              READY TO GO

                 My mother scatters the ashes
                   from her cooking fire.

                 She sweeps the hogan floor
                   with her rabbit-brush broom.

                 My father lays the bough
                   across the door
                   to show that we have gone.

                 The dogs bark.

                 They run around the sheep corral
                   telling the sheep
                   we are ready to go.

                 The young corn in the field
                   hangs its tasseled heads.

                 Young corn,
                   my grandmother is staying
                   at home.

                 She will take care of you.

                 My father mounts his horse.

                 He drives the pack horses before him.

                 My uncle mounts his horse.

                 They ride away together,
                   singing,
                   across the empty sand.

[Illustration]


                            GOODBYE GRAY CAT

                    Gray Cat,
                      I am telling you goodbye.

                    Today I go to the mountains.

                    I take my sheep to summer range,
                      but you, Gray Cat,
                      you have no sheep
                      so you must stay at home.

                    Stay here with my grandmother,
                      Gray Cat.

                    She will feed you.

                    Goodbye, Goodbye.

[Illustration]


                            ACROSS THE SAND

                    My mother lets down the bars
                      of the sheep corral.

                    The flock crowds around her.

                    The goats look at me.

                    I think they are saying,
                      "We know where we are going."

                    The little lambs
                      walk close by their mothers.

                    They are like me,
                      they do not know
                      if they will like this place
                      where we are going.

                    My mother and I,
                      we drive our sheep
                      across the sand.

                    My grandmother
                      stands at her door
                      looking after us.


                         GOODBYE TO GRANDMOTHER

                    My grandmother,
                      my little grandmother,
                      now I am leaving you.

                    Last year I was too small
                      to go to the mountains.

                    I stayed with you,
                      but this year I am big,
                      I am almost tall
                      so I must help drive the sheep
                      to summer range.

                    My grandmother,
                      my little grandmother,
                      do not be lonely.

                    I will come back again.

[Illustration]


                                 RIDING

                   Riding,
                     riding,
                     riding on my horse
                     to herd the sheep
                     across the yellow sand.

                   Yellow sand is around me.

                   Yellow sun is above me.

                   I ride in the middle
                     of a sand and sun filled world.

                   Riding,
                     riding,
                     riding on my horse
                     to herd the sheep
                     across the yellow sand.

                   Sun heat
                     and sheep smell
                     and sand dust
                     wrap around me
                     like a blanket
                     as I ride through the sand
                     with my sheep.

[Illustration]


                         NOON IN THE SAGEBRUSH

                  At noon
                    we reach the sagebrush flats.

                  Gray-green sagebrush scents the air.

                  Gray-green sagebrush softens
                    the yellows of the land.

                  My mother makes a little fire
                    no bigger than her coffee pot.

                  Food is good
                    and rest is good
                    at noon
                    in the sagebrush.

[Illustration]


                               NIGHT CAMP

                   At night we make camp
                     in the juniper covered hills.

                   My father is waiting for us there.

                   The moon looks down
                     on the restless sheep
                     on the hobbled horses.

                   The moon looks down
                     on a shooting star.

                   But I am too tired
                     to look at anything.

                   I sleep.

[Illustration]


                              UP THE TRAIL

                    Morning sunrise sees us climbing
                      up and up
                      on the mountain trail.

                    There are pine trees
                      standing straight and tall.

                    Brown pine needles
                      and green grass
                      cover the ground.

                    Shadows play with the sunlight.

                    There is no yellow sand.

                    The sheep hurry upward,
                      climbing and pushing
                      in the narrow trail.

                    I ride after the sheep.

                    My horse breathes fast.

                    His feet stumble
                      in the narrow trail.

                    All day long
                      the sheep climb upward.

                    They want to eat
                      and I am hungry, too,
                      but my mother says,
                      "No."

                    All day long we ride
                      to herd the sheep.

                    Night is almost with us
                      when we reach the top.


                              SUMMER RANGE

                  Summer range in the mountains
                    is on a high mesa,
                    a steep, high mesa,
                    a flat-topped mesa,
                    with tall growing pine trees,
                    with short growing green grass,
                    with little, winding rivers
                    and rain filled lakes.

                  This is summer range for our sheep.

[Illustration]


                                THE LAKE

                    Between the trees
                      I see water standing
                      in a bowl of green rushes.

                    The water is quiet.

                    It is still
                      and blue
                      and cold.

                    It is a lake
                      with land all around it.

                    It is a lake.

                    The sheep drink
                      long and steadily.

                    They stand in the shallow water
                      at the edges of the lake.

                    Their little pointed feet
                      dig deep into the mud
                      of the lake banks.

                    I see colored fish
                      beneath the water
                      swimming in a rainbow line.

                    I throw stones into the lake.

                    The water pushes back in circles
                      to take the stones.

                    The dogs swim far out
                      into the cold waters.

                    They are thirsty and hot.

                    I have never seen a lake before.

                    Gentle rain pools I have seen
                      and angry flood waters,
                      but never before
                      a still, blue lake.

                    It is beautiful.

                    A lake is beautiful.

[Illustration]


                                SHELTER

                    Beneath the trees
                      I see our summer shelter.

                    My father and my uncle
                      have made a shade
                      to shelter us from night rains
                      and from the cold
                      of near-by snow peaks.

                    They have made us a shade
                      of cottonwood boughs
                      and juniper bark.

                    It has the clean smell
                      that trees give.

[Illustration]


                            THE SHEEP CORRAL

                   My father and my uncle
                     made a sheep corral
                     while they were waiting
                     for the sheep and for us
                     to come up the trail.

                   They made the sheep corral
                     of branches,
                     a circle of branches,
                     a circle of dark colored boughs.

                   The sheep stay safe
                     in their corral tonight
                     and I sleep
                     beneath the cottonwood shade.

[Illustration]


                                  DAWN

                  This morning
                    when I opened my eyes from
                    sleeping I could not remember
                    what place this is.

                  I thought I was in
                    my mother's winter hogan.

                  Now I remember.

                  This is summer camp.

                  Tall trees stretch above me.

                  In the darkness
                    they look blacker than the night.

                  As I lie here,
                    safe and warm beneath
                    my blanket,
                    all around me turns to gray mist,
                    all around me turns to silver.

                  Darkness is gone,
                    but it made no sound.

                  It left no footprints.

                  The world is still asleep.

                  Through the pine trees
                    day comes up
                    light comes up.

                  In the pine trees
                    bird wings are stirring,
                    bird songs are stirring.

                  I hear them.

                  I hear them.

                  The grass beside my blanket
                    is wet with night rain.

                  Morning mist is on the leaves
                    and in my hair.

                  I put one toe out,
                    one brown toe out.

                  It is hard to get up
                    when it is cold.

                  Blue smoke from my mother's fire
                    curls upward in a thin blue line.

                  The sheep move inside their corral.

                  I come out from under my blanket,
                    from under my warm blanket.

                  Like the other things around me,
                    I come out
                    to greet the day.


                             MORNING PRAYER

                     Silent and still
                       my father stands
                       before our summer shelter.

                     He is thinking a prayer
                       to the Holy Ones,
                       asking them
                       this day
                       to keep our feet
                       on the trail of Beauty.

                     Filling the silence
                       of my father's prayer
                       I hear the bluebird's song.

[Illustration]


                               THE SHEEP

                    The poor sheep are cold.

                    Their winter wool was cut off
                      last week
                      at shearing time.

                    When early summer painted
                      flowers on the desert
                      with bunches of new grass,
                      when snow water melted
                      and softened the hard earth,
                      when Sun-Bearer smiled
                      on the sheep and the people.

                    Then my mother said,
                      "Now,
                      it is shearing time."

                    My mother said that last week.

                    Last week it was shearing time.

                    Last week
                      at shearing time,
                      my mother caught her sheep.

                    One by one she caught them.

                    She tied their feet together
                      and with her shears
                      she clipped their wool.

                     My mother's hands were sure.

                     She cut the wool but once
                       from underneath.

                     She did not fumble,
                       cutting it here and there
                       into short pieces.

                     She cut the wool but once.

                     Her hands were sure.

                     My mother's hands were strong.

                     She pulled the wool back.

                     She folded it back
                       to come off in one piece.

                     My mother's hands were strong.

                     The sheep lay still
                       beneath her gentle fingers.

                     Trusting my mother's hands,
                       the sheep lay still.

                     But now
                       the poor sheep are cold.

                     They stand in their corral
                       this morning
                       and shiver
                       and bleat
                       and call loudly
                       for the sun
                       and for me
                       to come.

[Illustration]


                               THE GOATS

                   Goats lead the sheep.

                   They go first into everything.

                   That is their way.

                   They are not afraid.

                   My uncle says in the English,
                     "Goats are tough."

                   Goats eat the grass too far down.

                   They eat the trees too far up.

                   That is their way.

                   They do not care.

                   My uncle says in the English,
                     "Goats are tough."

                   Goats, more than sheep,
                     get into my mother's stew pot.

                   Their meat is good,
                     but it takes chewing,
                     too much chewing.

                   I say with my uncle,
                     "Goats are tough."

[Illustration]


                                HERDING

                 After we have eaten our morning food,
                   my father and my uncle
                   ride down the steep trail
                   to the Trading Post.

                 My mother kneels beside her loom
                   before the cottonwood shade.

                 I see the sun on my mother's
                   brown hands.

                 I see the sun on my mother's
                   black hair.

                 I give my mother a long look,
                   then I turn my back.

                 I walk to the sheep corral.

                 My feet are brown.

                 My feet are bare.

                 The wet grass parts
                   to make a way
                   to let me pass.

                 I walk to the sheep corral.

                 My skirts are long.

                 My skirts are many.

                 The flowers move back
                   to make a way
                   to let me pass.

                 I walk to the sheep corral.

                 I let down the bars.

                 The sheep go first
                   and I follow.

                 The sheep walk slowly
                   for they like to eat
                   the short sweet grass
                   under the trees.

                 I walk slowly
                   for I am lonely.

                 Things here are strange.

                 I am afraid.

                 I know that my mother sits
                   before our shelter
                   weaving a blanket at her loom.

                 I know she is near me,
                   but I cannot see her.

                 I can see only tall trees
                   and bits of sky.

                 I am a child of the yellow sand.

                 Mesa top and pine trees,
                   green grass and colored flowers
                   are strange to me.

                 Unknown things live here.

                 I am afraid.

                 I creep to the edge of the mesa
                   while my sheep are feeding.

                 Far, far below me
                   is the world I know,
                   the yellow world
                   of sand and wind
                   and sand.

                 Far below
                   I see sheep walking,
                   someone's sheep walking,
                   in a dust cloud
                   of their own making.

                 Far below
                   I see a sand whirl
                   made by an angry wind
                   fighting the land.

                 Far below
                   I see the heat haze,
                   colored heat haze
                   blanketing the desert.

                 I see these things
                   through tears
                   for they are the things
                   I know.

                 I am lonely without them.

                 Here on top of the mesa
                   is a strange world
                   of shadows and water
                   and grass for the sheep.

                    Grass for the sheep,
                      I had forgotten that.

                    Grass for the sheep
                      to give them life,
                      to make them strong.

                    Here on top of the mesa
                      there is grass for our sheep.

                    Surely the gods are good
                      who live here.

                    The sheep drink slowly.

                    Shadows sleep.

                    The quiet of the mesa
                      pushes against me.

                    I can feel it, heavy, heavy,
                      it pushes against me.

                    Surely, the gods who live here
                      are known to me.

                    The words of the Holy Song
                      are known to me.

                    "On top of the mountain
                      are found the gods."

                    These are the words
                      of the Holy Song.


                            NOON ON THE MESA

                Day grows long
                  and bright with sunlight.

                The sheep eat their way
                  to the rain lakes
                  under the willows.

                Little rivers run through the tall grass
                  and hide away in the rushes.

                I see a line of scattered clouds
                  across the sky.

                Sun-Bearer rests
                  on his way
                  to the House of Turquoise Woman
                  in the Western Waters.

                It is the middle-time of day.


                               AFTERNOON

                  Lying on my back
                    under the willows
                    I can see an eagle flying
                    far above
                    in great circles
                    against the blue.

                  I feel
                    and see
                    and listen,
                    but I do not talk.

                  There is no one to hear me.

                  There is no one to play with me,
                    only the lambs and the baby goats
                    and they like each other
                    better than me,
                    I think.

                  I am alone.

[Illustration]


                               PLAYMATES

                 But look!!

                 There are butterflies,
                   small white butterflies
                   above the flower plants
                   of purple iris.

                 I sit among the iris.

                 I hear the whispering
                   of white wings flying.

                 I think they like my velvet blouse.

                 I think they like my long black hair
                   because they come to me
                   and to the purple iris,
                   those small white butterflies.

                 A little fat chipmunk
                   in a brown striped blanket
                   comes close to me.

                 He sits on his feet.

                 He holds his hands out.

                 He wrinkles his nose and looks at me.

                 I give him bread.

                 He holds it in his hands
                   and with little quick bites
                   stores it away
                   in his fat brown cheeks.

                 Funny little chipmunk
                   in his brown striped blanket
                   with storerooms in his face!

                    Gray squirrels with bushy tails
                      run up and down the trees.

                    They chatter to me.

                    They make me laugh.

                    I pull my skirts around me
                      and follow the squirrels.

                    Now I know where they live.

                    Now I know where I can find
                      piñon nuts this autumn.

                    I feel the warmth
                      of Sun-Bearer's shield
                      against my back.

                    And on my face
                      I feel cool fingers
                      of rain-cloud shadows.

                    With my hands on the warm earth
                      beside me,
                      almost,
                      I can feel things growing.

                    Why did I think
                      I was alone?

[Illustration]


                              POSSESSIONS

                  I am making a song
                    to sing to myself.

                  It is about my possessions.

                  I have a woven hair tie.

                  I have a woven belt.

                  My mother made them for me.

                  My mother gave them to me.

                  They are my possessions.

                  I have silver rings on my fingers.

                  I have silver bracelets on my arms.

                  My father made them for me.

                  My father gave them to me.

                  They are my possessions.

                  Soft things
                    and hard things
                    I have for my possessions.

                  A song,
                    a song,
                    I am singing a song about them.

[Illustration]


                                 STORM

                  A storm wind comes to stop my song.

                  It comes through the trees
                    with the strength of anger.

                  It sways me forward.

                  It sways me backward.

                  It turns me when I am walking.

                  Black clouds gather
                    to blanket the thunder.

                  Zig-zag lightning
                    cuts the clouds in two.

                  My sheep crowd near me.

                  With soft words I speak to them.
                  I tell them
                    not to be afraid
                    for I am here.


                               LIGHTNING

                     Lightning darts
                       like an arrow,
                       an arrow of fire,
                       from an unseen bow.

                     It darts in flame
                       from the gray sky
                       to the gray earth.

                     It strikes a tree.

                     Lightning strikes a tree.

                     My sheep,
                       my sheep,
                     I must save my sheep
                       from this evil around them.

                     I must save them,
                       my sheep,
                       my poor frightened sheep.


                                  FIRE

                 Fire runs up the tall tree trunk
                   and into the branches.

                 The tree is on fire.

                 The tree is aflame.

                 It blazes.

                 It crackles.

                 It burns.

                 The sheep look to me to protect them.

                 My poor frightened sheep,
                   I do not know which way
                   to take them.

[Illustration]


                                  RAIN

                  But wait!

                  The sky is opening.

                  Rain comes through.

                  Male rain comes through,
                    comes down in sheets of water,
                    pours down in sheets of water
                    drenching the flames
                    of the burning tree.

                  My mother comes running
                    between the trees.

                  She is frightened for the sheep
                    and for me.

                  I tell her
                    all things are good.

                  Lightning did not touch the sheep.

                  Male rain saved the trees from fire.

                  Male rain saved us from forest fire.

                  Now male rain has gone
                    down into the valley.

                  Female rain follows
                    with soft footsteps.

                  Flowers turn upward

                  Leaves turn upward
                    lifting their hands
                    to catch the gentle rain.

                  It is good.

                  The rain is good.

                  I open my hands
                    to catch the gentle rain.

[Illustration]


                                EVENING

                    Sun-Bearer parts the clouds
                      and looks down on the rain.

                    He turns each raindrop
                      into a silver bead.

                    He turns each rainstreak
                      into a silver necklace.

                    He makes a rainbow path
                      for the gods
                      across the sky.

                    I go among the sheep,
                      the huddled, wet sheep.

                    I sing to them.

                    I sing to the sheep,
                      a song, a song,
                      a song about my possessions,
                      my ceremonial goods.

                    I have a little buckskin bag
                      filled with things,
                      with things.

                    My grandfather filled it for me.

                    My grandfather gave it to me.

                    Wherever I go
                      I carry my little buckskin bag
                      to keep me safe,
                      to keep my feet
                      on the Trail of Beauty.

                  A song,
                    a song,
                    I am singing a song
                    to my sheep.

                  Just now on the home trail,
                    a young deer,
                    a beautiful young deer,
                    stood in the bushes
                    and looked at me.

                  His eyes were big and dark
                    and full of questions.

                  A song,
                    a song,
                    I am singing a song
                    on the home trail.

                  I have a necklace of
                    turquoise and coral.

                  I have a necklace of
                    white shell and coral.

                  My grandmother traded for them.

                  My grandmother gave them to me.

                  They are possessions.

                  I have turquoise in my ears,
                    silver bells on my belt fringe.

                  My uncle made them for me.

                  My uncle gave them to me.

                  They are my possessions.

                  A song,
                    a song,
                    I am singing a song
                    to my sheep.

                  My father has five kinds
                    of possessions.

                  He has hard goods
                    and soft goods,
                    ceremonial goods
                    and land
                    and game.

                  But I am little.

                  I do not have five kinds.

                  I have three.

                  I made a song about them
                    to sing the sheep home.

                  At last we reach the home camp.

                  The sheep are safe in their corral.

                  I am safe with my mother.

                  Summer shade is at my back.

                  In front of me is my mother's fire.

                  I am dry and warm.

                  Good food is cooking.

                  My mother sings,
                    and all around me
                    there is beauty.

[Illustration]


                                 SUPPER

                   My father and my uncle
                     ride up from the Trading Post,
                     the Red Rock Trading Post
                     down near the winter hogan.

                   Long before I heard them
                     I could feel them coming.

                   Long before I saw them
                     I could hear them singing.

                   Now they ride into the firelight,
                     my father and my uncle.

                   My father brought salt
                     and baking powder
                     and lard
                     for my mother
                     from the Trading Post.

                   He brought candy
                     for me.

                   My father brought news,
                     much news.

                  Things he had seen,
                    things that were told to him
                    at the Trading Post.

                  He brought them back
                    for us to hear.

                  Then we washed our hands.

                  We sat away from the fire.

                  My mother placed the evening food
                    before us.

                  When we had eaten
                    my father gave thanks
                    to the Holy Ones.

                  We washed our hands again.

                  My uncle put new wood upon the fire.

                  Then the best part of the day began.

                  My father and my uncle talked.

[Illustration]


                                TALKING

                  My father said
                    in ten days
                    would be the time
                    for dipping the sheep.

                  He and my uncle
                    would help my mother and me
                    drive the sheep to the dipping.

                  Sheep must be dipped
                    in medicine-water.

                  There is no pollen.

                  There is no Holy Song.

                  There is no Trail of Beauty
                    in this medicine water.

                  But my father says
                    it is good for the sheep.

                  Sheep get lice
                    hidden in their thick wool.

                  Lice make the sheep unhappy.

                  Lice make the sheep bite their wool.

                  Lice are bad for sheep.

                  Dipping the sheep
                    in medicine-water
                    kills the lice.

                  Ticks are bad for sheep.

                  Ticks live
                    on the sheep's good blood.

                  Ticks make the sheep thin
                    and weak.

                   If the sheep are robbed
                     of their good blood
                     they cannot stand
                     the cold of winter.

                   They cannot stand
                     the heat of summer.

                   They sicken.

                   Their wool is not good.

                   Dipping the sheep
                     in medicine-water
                     kills the lice and the ticks.

                   It is good for the sheep.

                   My mother does not like dipping
                     because she does not understand
                     why the sheep are dipped.

                   But my father talks to her.

                   He tells her about lice and ticks.

                   He tells her too
                     that she is quickest and best
                     of all the women
                     at dipping her sheep
                     in the medicine-water.


                             SHEEP DIPPING

                   All the people
                     with their sheep and goats
                     and horses and wagons
                     and children and dogs
                     go to the dipping.

                   There is much dust and work
                     and singing and eating
                     at dipping time.

                   I like it.

                   Sheep do not like dipping.

                   They do not like to take a bath
                     in the medicine-water
                     even though it is good for them.

                   When grandfather goat gets dipped
                     he is angry, very angry.

                   He does not like
                     to get his whiskers wet.

                   Tomorrow, first thing,
                     I will tell old goat, old goat,
                     that in ten days
                     Washington will
                     wash his whiskers.

                   My father talks of other things
                     besides the dipping.

                   His voice goes on and on
                     like wind in trees,
                     like water running,
                     like soft rain falling,
                     like drum beats pounding,
                     talk,
                     talk,
                     talking.

[Illustration]


                                BEDTIME

                    After a time
                      my mother and I
                      unroll our blankets.

                    We go to bed
                      beneath the cottonwood shade.

                    I have my own prayer
                      to the night.

                    I whisper it,
                      whisper it,
                      but only the night wind hears.

                    The horses move
                      within the shadows.

                    My father sings.

                    It is night.

                    The sheep move
                      within the circle of branches.

                    My mother sleeps.

                    It is night.


                             THE STAR SONG

                    Softly my father sings
                      the Star Song
                      to the stars and me.

                    "When the world was being made,
                      being made,
                      when the gods were
                      placing stars,
                      the stars,
                      the stars in patterns
                      in the sky,
                      coyote stole the star bag,
                      coyote spilled the stars out
                      in the sky,
                      helter skelter in the sky,
                      when the world
                      was being made."

                    Softly my father sings it,
                      the Star Song,
                      to the stars and me.

                    Darkness covers me.

                    Beauty covers me.

                    My mother is near.

                    My father is near.

                    The sheep are safe.

                    The words of the Holy Song
                      come to me,
                      "On top of the mountain
                      I found the gods."

                    It is night.

                    It is night.

                    Happiness comes to me.

                    I sleep.




                               THE ARTIST


The artist, Hoke Denetsosie, is a full-blood Navaho boy of twenty years,
born and raised near Tuba City in the western part of the reservation.
He was a student at the Tuba school, and transferred to Phoenix Indian
School for high school work. Hoke has been drawing for a number of
years, during which time he has had little instruction. He finds the
landscape of his native country a source of never-tiring interest. Prior
to undertaking the problem of illustrating this series of stories, Hoke
had done no work in black and white, but has developed his technique as
he has proceeded.

When Hoke was invited to prepare the illustrations for these stories, he
was given the manuscripts to read, and then talked over with the author
the things she had in mind in writing the various episodes of the story.
By the variety of the story, many problems of illustration were
encountered which an artist might avoid for many years if simply drawing
in response to his own interest. Hoke has had full freedom in the
solution of these problems, often preparing several sketches for a
single episode, and then selecting between them for the final drawing.
Some of the drawings have been frankly experimental—showing a snow scene
in the simple black and white technique developed by Hoke, for example;
or distinguishing between night and day. The style is the artist's own,
and is neither the flat stylized drawing of many Pueblo artists, nor the
minutely shaded drawing of the white man. The artist was chosen because
he possesses a sure skill and inquiring mind. It is believed that his
present pictures will illuminate the text, and give pleasure to many;
and that he may have before him an artistic future. He has the following
brief statement to make about his own work:

"I shall always remember the day when I received the first manuscript of
the Little Herder series. The only instructions and suggestions I
received before I began were; 'Here are the manuscripts, let's see what
you can do with them.'

"So not knowing the first thing about the fundamentals and principles of
illustration the work really launched several months of extensive
experimentation, the result of which was the black and white technique
finally achieved. The use of simple black and white technique was
employed because it is more readily understandable for a child.

"The nature of the stories, being concerned with Navaho life, called for
illustration genuine in every sense of the word. I had to observe and
incorporate in pictures those characteristics which serve to distinguish
the Navaho from other tribes. Further, the setting of the pictures had
to change to express local changes as the family moved from place to
place. The domestic animals raised by the Navaho had to be shown in a
proper setting just as one sees them on the reservation. The sheep could
not be shown grazing in a pasture, nor the horses in a stable, because
such things are not Navaho.

"In other words the ideas were represented in an earnest attempt to
express as far as possible the author's feelings, but without hindering
the illustrator's freedom."




                          TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical
    errors.
 2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.