Banning High School - San Gorgonian Yearbook (Banning, CA)

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When at the last the plaintive strains had died away and he had made a sweep- ing bow, his audience was too spellbound to even move, all except Granny Cindy, who went over to him; and there the old couple sat hand in hand while the tears of happiness ran down their wrinkled black cheeks. Marybess Wood INDIAN LEGENDS OF SAN GORGONIO PASS It had been a warm day. I was seated near the tent of my Indian host. In the distance dead mountain ranges stood forth in weird outline against the sky. I sat there watching the last blazing glory of the sun sink away, watching the blackness of night come out of the east in pursuit of the sun that had sunk below the moun- tains in the west. “Still the golden Sun Man In the sky is seen; Every day he summons The hunters to the plain, But the silver Moon Squaw Follows in his path, Calls the hunters home again Laughing at his wrath.” The fire had died out. A squaw came out of the darkness and dropped beside ihe embers. She blew them into a feeble blaze and threw on fresh wood. ‘The call of the fire summoned the tribe together. Around the blazing logs they gathered. The days I had spent in the reservation at Palm Springs had been happy ones. The pass itself is hemmed in by majestic mountains lost to the world—one of the gateways to the heart of Southern California. I realized that here where these gaunt, rugged mountains were veiled in purple and gray was a land of enchantment and mystery. I had been a silent witness of the blackness of these same mountains changing to a deep bluish purple of the most exquisite shade as day rose out of the desert. All this went through my mind as I gazed at this assembled mass of Indians— this tribe which lived surrounded by the great sand wrapped desert, whose mystery no man knows—the desert which one finds forsaken of most things but beauty and God. Long ago the Indian tribes went on a journey to the northwest. They banded together at Los Angeles (Hem-atcha-mock-va), and soon the line could be seen wind- ing over the rolling prairie. But when they reached what the people now call the “Jackrabbit,” they stopped and parted. Finally, one tribe reached Gilman Springs where the people paused to wash off the dust of travel. The desert was their vast dressing room; friendly eyes were their mirrors. The other tribe reached Palm Springs, and finding the springs, called it Sereh. So it was thus that the Indians came here to live side by side in this wonder- land where the mountains come in assorted colors and the sunshine bathes all with its glare. Here in this land of variegated mountains the tribesmen look down on the same little sand gardens their ancestors once cultivated. The Indian no longer lives in his land of moonlit waters. He no longer stands above his village and gives homage to his gods. The water is still now. The years have covered their villages. All has decayed, and our American has vanished. Gone with the wind! Gone to the happy hunting grounds. Gone with nothing to remember PAGE TWENTY-TWQ

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ttle un- ong 2 irl] Yo’ nd WwW er ar ry listin’ when up comes Massa Tom from the big house. I kin see him as plain as if it wuz yestiddy when he walked up, grabbed Moses by the collar, and sez: “‘TLas’ night dis heah negro came to my house and stole my daughter’s rubies an’ now he must come wid me.’ “Moses tole him dat he neber took the rubies. But did it do any good? No siree, not wib Massa Tom; he jest uped an’ took Uncle Moses off widout sayin’ a word to nobody, and we ain’t seen hair nor hide of Uncle Moses since dat night. We think dat he wuz put in jail, and he might be in jail yet. “Granny hasn’t danced a step since dat night forty long years ago, and Uncle Moses’ fiddle is still in her cabin, and it hasn’t been played since dat night when he wuz took away. We all hopes dat he will show up some day yit tho. Dat is all of the story, Angeline.” “I am sho’ glad thet yo’ tole me de story, Aunt Mandy. I thinks myself dat some day Uncle Moses will come back. Good night, Aunt Mandy.” “Good night, Angeline, yo’ go git some sleep now cause I thinks dat yo’ dancin’ feets will sho’ be in demand tomorrow.” The day of days dawned very fair, and the people began pouring in; some came in old rickety wagons, some in buggies, some on foot, some hobbled in on canes, and a few came on the cars. Those negroes enjoyed themselves that day as only negroes can, They sat around and cracked jokes on each other, ate until they were hardly able to get around, and lay out under the large oak trees. Some strummed banjos all day, and singing was heard the whole day through. Some small pickaninnies danced and played blind-man’s-bluff out in the sunshine. About eleven o’clock the negroes saw Miss Margaret from the big house coming toward them. She went straight over to the merry makers and asked for Angeline. She took Angeline aside, and they whispered for some time, and then they called Alfonso over. In a few minutes he and Miss Margaret went off, and Angeline came back to the negroes with her dusky face shining. They all crowded around and begged her to tell them what had taken place, but she only smiled and said, “Yo’ all jest wait, and tonight yo’ will sho’ hab one mo’ big surprise.” That night they had a barn dance, and all of the negroes were dancing, too busy enjoying themselves to notice the trio that was standing in the barn door. The trio consisted of Alfonso, Granny Cindy, and a bent old man. Granny Cindy’s face was beaming and so was the old man’s that was standing by her. Alfonso went up to the fiddler and whispered a few words to him, and before the dancers knew what was taking place the music changed, and they heard music such as they had never heard before or since. The strings of the violin fairly talked. And everyone stopped dancing and listened. It seemed as if the violin was telling the story of a lifetime. One minute you could hear laughter and the next, weeping. In the music were all the longings and hopes of a lifetime and all the joys and sorrows. And when the dancers recognized the player they were sure that he was playing the story of his life. He seemed to give them a picture of that wedding day so long ago, of his hopes of happiness and then his sorrows when he was put in prison and at the last his violin seemed to tell of his happiness when the rubies had been found and he had been released. The music became softer and softer now and at last died out. Old Uncle Moses stood still a moment, and it seemed as if he were going to fall, but he raised his bow once more and with trembling fingers played that age old favorite which will never cease to be popular with the darkies—Old Black Joe: “T’'m comin,’ I’m comin,’ Though my head is bending low, I hear their gentle voices calling, Old Black Joe.” PAGE TWENTY-ONE

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him by except the legends heard on that memorable evening as I sat around the Indian campfire that I am going to relate to you: Years ago a tribe was called together. They all assembled in their adobe village wondering why Big Chief had called. The sun, when it sank below the mountain peaks, painted the sky a fiery red, and the medicine man prophesied death. Big Chief told them of the mountain lion that was threatening all with death. He asked that a brave offer himself to go forth and slay this lion. A brave, the most hand- some of the tribe, arose. With a farewell he left his people behind and offered him- self to the great adventure of death. An Indian maid, in tears, stood letting them drop into the water. Her mate was gone, sacrificing himself. The chase lasted many days, neither one gaining on the other until a hollow powl in the mountain was reached. There a terrible battle was fought; the mountain licn lay dead on the ground; and beside him the Indian brave, dying. Thus they lay until, with a heavy sigh, the brave died. Days came and went, and the village saw no return of their brave. Big Chief ordered that all the mountain sides be searched. Days later the Indians stumbled on a hidden lake, but little did they dream that its red color was that of blood or that beneath its oily smoothness the bones of the brave did lie. On their return, an Indian maiden stood gazing into the moonlit waters and then a slight throw of her body and she was gone. This colorful tale fascinated me, and upon inquiry I learned that the Indians call it “The Legend of Hidden Lake.’ I was eager for more and the old squaw continu- ed: Just south of the village of Palm Springs one finds a striking break in the mountains, and this is called Tahquitz Canyon for the evil spirit of the Cahuillas. The village was in sadness. The giant Tahquitz had stolen the pride of the tribe and had started up San Jacinto with the fair maiden. All the braves donned their: war paint and started in pursuit. Up the hills, down the valleys, they followed the giant. Tahquitz, seeing them, set down the maiden and hurled giant boulders down upon them. Many turned back, still more, until only the lover remained. The pursuit continued. Tahquitz pushed the maiden into a cave and closed the entrance with a rock. The time comes when Tahquitz can hold his wrath no longer. There on the mountain side he bellows, and a wind comes flying down upon the people, lifting the sand from its resting place to send it flying through the air—the Tahquitz twister! The old Indians look wise and shake their heads, and deep down in their hearts they are afraid. This ancient myth saddened me, but I was still anxious for more, and so I asked the chief of the tribe to explain to me why the lizard has a blue belly. The chief replied: It had been many days since the gods had blessed the land with rain. A con- course was called. The chief of the tribe spoke and asked that homage be given to the gods. “Pray, tribesmen, pray, but to no earthly king— Lift up your hands above the blighted grain. Look westward—if they please, the Gods shall bring Their mercy with the rain.” The medicine man came forth and suggested that the lizard be sent up into the sky in quest of rain. After a weary journey, he went before the gods and told them that which he wished. As a reward for his valor he was presented with a piece of sky which henceforth he wore on his belly. Conscious that my Indian friends were tiring of my questioning I asked for but one more tale. This was it: Hundreds of years ago far, far beyond the sea the birds came out of the east and flew onward into the west. They flew from one place to another, from mountain PAGE TWENTY-THREE