The Legends of San Francisco Part 1

The Legends of San Francisco.

by George W. Caldwell.

Dedication.

My San Francisco on her seven hills is smiling, Beside an opalescent sunset sea; There is a magic in her bracing air beguiling, Yet filling all with tireless energy.

The tingling tang of open sea the breeze is giving; The fog rolls in and drives heat languors out, And thrills her loyal subjects with the joy of living, And puts the love of idleness to rout.

When in the valleys, fervent summer heat oppresses, And gives no, respite night or day, There is a City that the cooling fog caresses, Upon the breezy San Francis...o...b..y.

When winter rains and sun have wrought in fragrant flowers A multicolored carpet on the land, A charm is in her circling hills and redwood bowers That only those who see can understand.

She has a mystic charm in all the changing seasons-- A lure that brings the stranger to her door, And in these pages I will give the Indian's reasons For charms and lures, never told before.

The legends of the hills, the fog, the gulls, the waters Idealize the beautiful and true; Allow me, therefore, California's Native Daughters, To dedicate this book of verse to you.

The Maid of Tamalpais.

This she told me in the firelight As I sat beside her campfire, In a grove of giant redwoods, On the slope of Tamalpais.

Old she was, and bent and wrinkled, Lone survivor of the Tamals, Ancient tribe of Indian people, Who have left their name and legend On the mountain they held sacred.

On the ground she sat and brooded, With a blanket wrapped around her-- Sat and gazed into the campfire.

On her bronze and furrowed features, On her hair of snowy whiteness, Played the shadows and the firelight.

Long she gazed into the embers, And I feared I had offended In the question I had asked her.

Then she spoke in measured accents, Slowly, with a mournful cadence, And long intervals of silence.

"You have asked me why my people Will not climb Mount Tamalpais-- Why we hold the mountain sacred.

I am old, and when the Raven Calls my spirit to the Father, None will know the ancient story, Sacred legend of the Tamals.

Therefore, I will tell the story, I will tell and you shall write it, Else it will be lost forever; I will tell it that the paleface May respect our sacred mountain."

"In the morning of creation All the world was covered over With the flood of troubled waters.

Only Beaver and the Turtle Swam about upon the surface.

Beaver said, 'I'm very weary.'

Turtle said, 'Dive to the bottom.'

Beaver dove and brought up gravel, Laid it on the back of Turtle; Dove again and brought a pebble, Then another and another.

Pebbles grew to rocks and boulders, As a peak above the waters-- Thus was Mount Diablo fashioned.

Beaver sat upon the mountain, Gazing out across the waters; Saw a single feather floating; Feather grew into an Eagle; Eagle flew and sat by Beaver.

Long they talked about creation, Counseled, planned, and reconsidered, Then they moulded clay with tules; Beaver placed his hair upon it, Eagle breathed into its nostrils Thus Coyote was created.

Coyote barked and sat beside them.

Many creatures were created; Some with hair, and some with feathers; Some with scales, or sh.e.l.ls, or bristles.

Other peaks and mountain ridges Then appeared above the waters.

Walls of hills were then continued North and south, to hold the waters In a mammoth lake, that, filling All the Sacramento Valley, Found its outlet to the ocean Through the Russian River Canyon.

Round the lake the blazing mountains Spouted lava and hot ashes; Casting on the troubled waters Lurid gleams and purple shadows.

By the lake Coyote wandered-- Sat and howled, for he was lonely, Lonely for a Man to tame him Into Dog as a companion.

Then Coyote mixed dry tules With wet clay and made a figure.

Sun G.o.d came and shone upon it; Spirit came and blew upon it, And a Man was thus created.

Sun G.o.d made the Moon to guard him, And she stood before his tepee, Watching while the Sun was sleeping; But she loved the Sun and followed Him into the starry heavens, Always with her face turned to him.

Still she watched the lonely tepee, And her heart was touched with pity For the lonely man within it, So she made a lovely woman, Gave her constancy, and sent her On a moonbeam to his tepee, As his helpmate and companion.

Man then multiplied, and flourished, Building villages and lording Over all the other creatures.

On the sunny eastern margin Of the Bay of San Francisco, Grew the village of the Tamals; Fisher folk they were, and gentle, Seeking not for wars of conquest; Fishing in the purple waters From their boats of bark or rawhide; Wading in the limpid shallows Seeking oysters, clams and mussels.

In the course of generations Piles of sh.e.l.ls of many banquets, With the ashes of their campfires, Formed a mound upon the bay sh.o.r.e.

Sh.e.l.l Mound Park, the people call it, And they gather in the shadows Of the ancient oaks for pleasure, Roasting clams as in the old days When the Tamals lived upon it.

Gone are now the limpid shallows; Gone the oysters and the mussels, And no more are gra.s.sy meadows Dappled with the spreading oak trees; For great factories, grim and sordid, Sprawl in squalid blocks around it, And the smoke of forge and furnace Rise from stacks into the heavens.

Paleface men with concave gla.s.ses, Learned in lore of printed pages, Dig into the mounds and gather Spear and arrow heads and axes, Broken weapons and utensils Made of flint, or bone, or seash.e.l.l.

To the northward, where great boulders Lie in tumbled piles and ma.s.ses, And a Thousand Oaks are cl.u.s.tered, And the crags upthrust their fingers Through the meadows of the uplands, Was another Indian village, Ancient stronghold of the Tamals.

In the village on the hillside Men were hunters, brave and fearless, Skillful with the bow and arrow, Artful with the snare and deadfall; Hunting deer and elk and bison In the open gra.s.sy meadows, Tracking wolf and mountain lion To their lairs among the redwoods; Bearing on their backs the trophies To their camp when night was falling.

In the village maids and matrons Dressed the furs and tanned the buckskin, Dried the venison, and traded With the Sh.e.l.l Mound folks for salmon, Mussels, clams and abalones, Ornaments of bone or seash.e.l.l, Weapons chipped from flint or jasper.

From the oaks they gathered acorns, And beneath the fragrant bay trees And the heavy blooming buckeyes, Ground the acorns into flour To be baked upon the hot-stones.

To this day the smoke of campfires May be traced in caves, and crannies Where the overhanging cliffsides Gives protection from the rainstorms.

If you search among the thickets Of the low widespreading buckeyes You will find their ancient mortars In the bedrock still remaining-- Mortar holes ground deep, and polished By the toil of many women Pounding, grinding with a pestle Fashioned from a stream-worn boulder.

Gone are all those ancient people, Perished now for many ages.

Many oaks have grown and withered, Many buckeyes bloomed and faded, Many tribes have fought and conquered, Lived for many generations, Then were driven out by others.

Still the mortar holes will linger As our monuments forever."

Fainter grew the voice, still fainter, Sinking almost to a whisper, With a hesitating quaver, As the picture came before her Of her disappearing people.

Then I rose and piled more branches Of the redwood on the campfire, And the flames and sparks leaped upward, Lighting up the mournful forest, Driving back the eerie shadows.

Long she bowed her head in silence, Then resumed her rhythmic speaking.

In the village lived a maiden, Fairest of all comely maidens Ever born among the Tamals; Fair of face and pure of spirit, Kind in thought and quick in service To the young and old and helpless; Ever eager for her duty, Ever singing at her labor.

When she sat beneath the buckeyes Grinding acorns in the mortar, Humming birds came sipping honey From the heavy scented blossoms; Wild birds came and sang their sweetest Music as they perched above her; And the Fairies came to greet her Dressed as b.u.t.terflies, and fluttered Round her head and whispered secrets-- Secrets not revealed to others.

Little wonder that the Chieftain, Young and brave and wise in counsel, Loved the maid and wished to take her As his wife to rule his people.

But she answered him with sadness, For she loved the youth, 'Beloved, This is not the time for lovers, But for warriors to make ready, For a danger comes upon us.

G.o.d has sent a warning message By the Fairies, and they whispered To me as I ground the acorns In the mortar 'neath the buckeyes.

Rally all your braves around you, Seize your strong bows, fill your quivers With the long flint-pointed arrows; Guard the ridges to the eastward Ere the foe shall fall upon us.'

To the eastward where Diablo Rears its peak above the fog banks Drifting landward from the ocean, Lived a warlike tribe of people.

Fierce they were, and grim and cruel, Worshiping the Fire Demon Who is crouching in the mountain.

From their heights they saw the waters Of the Bay of San Francisco Lying crystal-clear and purple.

Then no Sacramento River Poured its flood of silt into it, For a range of hills continued, All unbroken, from Diablo To the distant smoking mountain Which is now called Saint Helena.

Long they watched the bay and marveled At its strange, alluring beauty; Watched it in its changing colors-- In the gray of misty mornings, In the blue of sunny mid-day, In the glories of the sunset, In the silver flood of moonlight-- It enticed and seemed to beckon, Then, as ever, to the strangers.