Dirthole and FBI hunt (1882)
Legend of the Hungosarko Tribe passed through the ages by tongue
Before the fires the tribal elders told the story of their people. A proud noble race who hunted the great land. A land of forests, plains and water. The oldest of the oldest stared intently into the flames of the fire and spoke. Those around the flickering flames stopped the chat , young braves, hunters and gatherers focusing on the passer of the tribes legends. The story was passed.
"I was but a young member of the tribe. Memory is faint. A great white cloud filled the water. Men from a tribe I have never seen came into our land. Strangely dressed. Speaking a tongue no one in the tribe could understand. They gave us colorful beads, spear tips that not even the strongest warrior could bend and coverings of color. Gifts to give these visitors were few; berries, quills from native beasts and furs."
After many seasons. After many moons had gone across the sky our great hunter , named FBI (photo 1) by the visitors was sent to the "Happy Hunting Ground" by the beast from under Mother Earth." Dark times were ahead as Dirthole was the only living member of the Hungosarko tribe. An outcast. One of little value. Came into the tribe as a captive from what the white man called "Acadians."
Dirthole. Named by a squaw in our tribe for his love of putting his hands in the soil of Mother Earth. Elders worried and frowned. To the tribe he was an outcast. A man of no honor or worth. But worth was speaking the tongue the visitors language.
Dighole upon this faithful day was looking for the circles that the white men held in high regard like the mantua of all that lives. Dirt hole was not a hunter of meat to feed the tribe! Searching. Gathering the circles. One was found. Our great mother from across the endless water.
The search had not keep the eyes of Dighole upon that that he walked. Down to Mother earth's bosun did Dighole fall. Mother earth trembled. Looking up towards the sky his story was told in the clouds. A horse galloping. A female from the tribe glancing his way! A hole in the earth spewing white mans circles. The fall! Pain in the rear. Dighole felt pain. A stubble of corn had marked his backside where foul things left his body. He was off the reservation on the land of a planter of the field. He looked skyward and gave praise that no other had seen this . For his fear rose that he might me remembered as "Corn stock up the Rear." After a time. A time spent watching the sky pass he arose.
Having his courage waned Dighole walked to the field that the white man told stories of their past with markings on birch bark. Circles were found. Dighole was again a great gather.
With the circles spirited into his cloth Dighole walked. Walked to the nearest trading post. There he presented his gatherings. It had taken him a full day. The white man gave Dighole a bottle. A bottle of spirits. The most cherished gift of the people from across the endless waters. Dreams came that night to Dighole. Days of glory past, of days of gathering berries, nuts and wild flowers . Things that his adopted tribe values. No pain.
Dighole dreamed. Thought about that which could not be named.