Coming Soon

In the days and weeks ahead, we will be taking a bit of a hiatus from our Last of the Forest Dwellers tales, and turning our attention to creating a new site.  The new site will offer an updated look and new content and information.  Rest assured, our Nubbins will be making a reappearance.  So stay tuned and thank you for reading!

Edward Howes, 1849

[Prior to and during the Civil War, the existence of an “underground railroad” and movement of black slaves from the south to safe houses on Cape Cod, and then onto fishing vessels headed to Canada, is well known; but actual documentation of this, an illegal activity at the time, is hard to find.  Most information comes by way of handed-down stories, family journals and letters.   

It is one of these journal stories that we share with you, for it also tells of a group of little men who helped one night when the movement of a black family was about to be found out…]

5, August, 1849

“We waited till dark, and then hurried the four out of the cellar and onto the hay wagon.  The invoice noted the hay to be delivered to a Provincetown ice house.  Our wagon was joined by two others and we made our way along King’s Highway, anxious about the bright moon.  Night deliveries like ours were not common, and since the uprising in Harwich the year before, there were those who were now much more incensed over the activity of moving slaves.  There was a common thread among these types and their thinking and that was to mind their own business and let the Southerner’s mind theirs as well.  They were not comfortable with the thought of interference and the consequences it might bring to the region."

  

"We made it past the three lights and were nearing Fresh Brook Village when a wagon, set in the brush just off the road beyond us, pulled its team right onto the highway, blocking our progress.  We pulled off to the side as six men came out of the thickets.  One approached my wagon.  I moved my rifle under the seat and out of view.  The man claimed to be a constable, checking on movement of goods to avoid taxing.  I showed him the invoice for the hay carried by our wagons."

"He looked at the document for several minutes, laughed and then said that hay was a great way to hide the wares of any store, and motioned for the others to come and search the wagons.  I was sure we were about to be discovered, when the horses suddenly became very agitated, including those of their wagon.  As I tried to steady my team, a sight hard to believe:  several very small men ran by us at great speed slapping the horses of these night highwaymen, causing them to bolt down the road.  The constable was suddenly no longer interested in our hay, and ran by us chasing the wagon, yelling back and forth to one another.  'Did you see them?! It’s them!  It’s them!  We should never posted guard here at night!'"

"The drivers of our other wagons never saw the little men; yet, since that night I have found that there are legends about such little people living in the towns of Eastham and Wellfleet.  I cannot prove this is the case.  I know only what I saw tonight."

Cyrus Cole (1883) continued...

[Cyrus Cole looked at me to see if he could detect my belief or what I was thinking.  He then continued his story of Mayo and the British ship, Spencer.  His nervousness perplexed me, the blockade being some sixty and more years hence.]

  

"I hear tell that after the crew went below, Mayo gathered up their weapons, went overboard, and walked the flats into town.  He informed the militia of the stranded boat and she was easily captured."

"The militia was comprised of local farmers and fishermen, so it took some time for them to gather after Mayo inform town fathers of the boat.  One young lad, Ebenezer Freeman (1), followed the armed men as they headed toward the beach.  Now according to his story, he watched from the bluff as the group surrounded the stricken vessel.  No shots were fired as none were needed.  Soon the militia had the captured crew marching back to shore.  

[Cyrus seemed to know great detail about the militia’s actions that day, leading me to believe that he may in fact be the youngster mentioned.  If so, he would have been just 8 years old at the time.]

"The tide was soon to come, but the youngster, wanting a better look at the now empty vessel like some of the other onlookers, headed out onto the flats.  He was about three hundred yards offshore, when he was surprised and shaken to the depths of his soul as six very small men ran past him at great speed.  They were onto the vessel in but a second, and then they were gone.

The boy ran back to the beach, hollering to a group of men who were also headed out for a better look. 

[Cyrus grew increasingly agitated at this point of his tale.  His voice cracked and his point of view suddenly shifted to the present tense as if we were on that very beach, the Spencer resting on the flats beyond.]

“Did you see them?!  Did you see them?!”   

“See what, boy?” one of the men asked.

“Those little men!  They ran like the wind!”

The men laughed.  “Boy we’ve been here just like you.  There were no little men.  You been at your old man’s rum?”

“No sir, I swear it.”

[Cyrus stopped his now theatrical narration.  He was shaking and sweat dripped from his brow.  He quickly looked out the window to avoid my stare.]

“Hard to believe isn’t it, Doc?  Well, that’s what the boy told me he saw.  That’s what he told me."

[I made another appointment for Cyrus for September 8th.]

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(1) We could find no record of such a boy.

Cyrus Cole (1883)

There are other pieces of evidence which we think provide believable documentation of encounters.  We offer this recorded session as told by a Cyrus Cole in 1883 to a Dr. Wyman Packard of Plymouth. Cole said he knew of the youngster mentioned in his story, and believed the lad.

August 12^th 1883

Notes recorded 5:45 PM


Cyrus Cole – Age 77 – Liver ailments - Long time alcoholic - Severe short term memory problems.  

Cyrus told me this tale today.  My note taking was tested here, thus have recorded the details as best I could.  Historical content I believe, but will work to verify, though his other stories have proven to be correct in terms of past factual events.

"By 1814, blockade running on Cape Cod had become lucrative for some, and the western shore line with its vast flats from Eastham to Barnstable was ideal for skirting their watchful British navy.  Remember that Mayo and Hill of Eastham (1) [He seemed to believe I should know these two characters of the past.] were adventurous lads and the scheme to take a load of rye to Boston was risky at best, as the British ship Spencer patrolled the bay with the assistance of other smaller vessels.  To the surprise of those who heard later, the two made it safely to Boston in their outfitted whale boat.  But here their success may have gotten the better of their judgment.  They traded their vessel for a larger boat loaded with cargo and headed homeward, proud of their exploits thus far.  When they reached the waters off the Gurnet of Duxbury, a pinkie (2) approached them. Mayo thought the vessel to be a fisherman, but the two were unpleasantly surprised to find the boat to be a disguised British patrol."

"They were easily taken into custody.  I believe Hill was taken to Boston for ransom.  Mayo was given the choice to pilot the vessel and assist the crew while navigating the area.  The offer pleased Mayo.  He had them head south and soon they were just a couple of miles off Yarmouth."

[Cyrus shifted in his seat.  He seemed nervous.]

"A storm came up and a heavy westerly wind with growing seas battered the schooner.  Mayo, known to be quick thinking, told the others to take safe haven inside Billingsgate, and they made their way North.  It wasn’t long before Mayo’s decision, whether planned or not, had the vessel grounded off the flats west of his own town.  The crew was furious, but he assured them that on the next tide they would float free.  He suggested they go below in the meantime so the vessel would not cause suspicion."

"Of course, they didn't know Mayo from Adam, so one might wonder why they complied."

To be continued...


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(1) We could not find record of these men. The names may be fictitious to protect both the patient and the doctor who provided the records.
(2) A pinkie was a small schooner with the stern of the vessel painted pink.

Shipwrecks and Shrouds (1890) continued...

When I awoke, I was lying unclothed under a woolen-type blanket covered by dried salt hay, in what seemed to be a small barn with extremely low rafters. In fact, I could easily see that I was not going to be able to stand in the place. There was a distinct odor of herbs, and a slight haze of wood smoke hung near the ceiling.   My head felt like I had spent the prior day drinking rum at the local tavern. I tried moving, but a pain in my left arm froze me in place.

I looked over and saw that my arm was wrapped tightly in a muslin cloth and bound to a long plank, which was, in turn, attached to the floor.  I had an immediate vision of my ordeal in the surf, and the spar that had smashed my arm, breaking it in several places. I now remembered, too, the little people who had pulled me from the sea.  I knew this small building must be their home or barn, and that they had set my arm and had so attached the plank to ensure I could not move it out of place.  The room was lit by two odd looking glass lanterns, unlike any lantern I had seen before. Along the wall to my right were long lengths of line, carefully coiled, and piles of what looked to be dark gray blankets, folded very neatly.  Above the coiled line were various blocks, deadeyes, belaying pins, braces, and parrals. It was a fine collection of various ships' rigging.  Four large sea chests were along the other wall. A fire pit was in front of me and the back wall I could not see, as it was well back and very dark.

It wasn't long before I heard voices, though their talk I could barely understand.  Whether it was a very odd type of old English, or a blend of English and some other language, I was not certain. Three little men came into view, and since I did not see a door open, I had to believe they were in the back of that room right along. They were scarcely three feet tall, and each looked much like the other, although they could be set apart.  The one closest to me motioned to my arm, and the others came over and released the cloth from the plank.  The one spoke and to the best I recall said this: 

"Woken you'st be."  

He then gave me a drink, which tasted somewhat like old and bitter tea, and then went on. 

"The dram of brew she made hither does't now taketh the senses, ye shall see more clearly by the next moon rising."  

I remember little else.  My vision became very blurry and I slumped back into sleep. 

  

I have no idea how long I slept, but upon waking found myself now fully dressed in my own clothes and laying in a soft pile of feathers and hay.  My arm no longer hurt, nor was it wrapped. My ragged shirt had been repaired, and I was wearing an odd, but comfortable, sort of boots. The sun was shining through a small opening across from where I lay.  I felt somewhat drunk and had to focus my vision.  

This room was much smaller, and it was empty other than the pile of feathers and hay.  The ceiling was made of what looked to be cedar planks and here and there were spaces between the boards beneath which roots were clearly visible. I concluded then that I was in some type of underground pit. When I sat up, my head cleared the ceiling by but a few inches. What looked to be a small door was to my left, and I rolled over on my side to see if I could push it open. There was no resistance to my effort, and I was now looking out at a small clearing amongst very dense thickets. Several little men were using the gray blankets I saw earlier to cover the badly decomposed remains of two seamen. So bad were the remains that the bones of the hands had little flesh left upon them. One of the little men turned to me and said, "Woken you'st be....your sleep was for many days...see a dozen shrouds we hath used this season...the storms taketh many of your people...some not found but by us...we doth bury them near the bluff...the shrouds hide the bones, but will keep the spirit."   

The little man gestured for me to come out. I struggled through the small door and when I was finally able to stand it was immediately apparent I had not stood in a long while, as my knees almost gave out beneath me.  Two of the men steadied me, and all of them were now laughing.  The one, who seemed to be the older, then led me to a path and gave me a small pouch containing a dram of water and some type of herbed bread.  He then passed me a staff, and, pointing to the west, told me to follow the path to Kings Highway.  I was told not to share my story or their location.  He warned that no one would believe me; that they may even term me a mad man.  As he headed back toward the others, he turned and shouted, "Nor shall you remember a way back."  

Several months later, before I returned to Boston, I walked the highway trying to find that path, hopeful I might thank the little men.  I never found its location, despite my leaving a pile of stones at its opening that day.

Shipwrecks and Shrouds (1890)

Most Nubbin tales have been lost over the years, but there are a few remaining stories of encounters as recalled by seamen, settlers and Native Americans. The following is one the most detailed accounts ever found or recorded. It describes an encounter with a Nubbin group by the seaman and shipwreck survivor, Jonathan Atwood, who told this story in 1891.(1) Like many such encounters, this meeting began with the Nubbins coming to the aide of a human counterpart.

"This was not a good end to the year," I thought, as the ship was now driven onto the bars by giant waves and the Nor'east gale. By my last view of the three lights, I was sure we were near the town of Wellfleet, as I had made this trip on several occasions.  While the Smuggler was well built, she could not stand the pounding of the surf for much longer and all hands took to the rigging.  I was not listed as a passenger, nor was I part of the crew, for I had stowed away at the last minute.  Thus, given no one knew of my presence, I found myself truly at the point of "all hands to themselves".

Despite the roar of the surf, I could hear crew members screaming, while others were shouting back that men could be seen on the beach and would rescue them.  When the gale let up for just a moment, I could see the men ashore near the bottom of the bluff, and there was also a horse pulling a wagon.  They used a canon and shot a line to our vessel, which when secured they sent on a breeches buoy and began to rescue each of the crewmen one by one.  Though I knew I might end up in irons, I tried to cling to the foremast, shouting, waiting a turn for rescue. As the last crewman was pulled off, the ship began to break up just to the aft of the mast, and the breaking hull moved in pieces south along the shore.  

The crewman went into the water, but was finally pulled to safety.  The buoy line, however, was gone, and my chance of rescue was lost.  The rescuers never saw me, and to this day I'll never know if anyone on board heard my shouts that night.  Then another giant wave smashed against the section of hull and I fell into the raging and very cold water.  The strong current carried me quickly away from the ship, and I tried with all my will to stay afloat and worked to reach shore, which now seemed much closer.  I was then hit by a large section of a spar, and found my left arm dangling, and my head bloodied. My feet hit bottom, but the next wave carried me down shore. I could hardly move anymore when a third wave hit me and carried my almost frozen body onto the lower beach. I could only claw with my right hand and push with my feet to get myself out of the surf, which kept crashing around me, as if it wanted to take me back into the sea.  

It was then that three very little men, all with gray beards, ran to me and attached a line; and as I looked up the beach, other small men began to pull me. I was grasping the line with my right hand, and pushed with all my might to try and help them, but upon a word called out in unison by all of them, I was pulled out of the water, and to my disbelief was floating in the air for a brief moment and then was upon dry sand.  

I was now going in and out of consciousness, and the last thing I remember of that night is a very old little woman placing a compress on my head. She did not smile, but her stare made me feel at peace.

To be continued...

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(1) Although Atwood admitted he was a stow-away on this trip and could not be traced in any other records, the account is thought to be authentic by Nubbin believers and historians, as the schooner Smuggler described in the account did wreck off Wellfleet in a raging storm on December 31, 1890, about 2 miles south of the Cahoon Hollow Life Saving Station. The Station, then under the command of Captain Daniel Cole, recorded the sinking much the same as told by Atwood months later.

A Side Note

It is a reasonable question when asked:  

With the Cape so built up, why haven’t these little people been seen more often, if in fact, they are truly here?

We have no easy answer to this question, other than to say we know that our research shows that human encounters with the Nubbins are not well documented, likely because the people who see them do not believe what they saw was real or are afraid of ridicule.  However, over the next several weeks and months our blog, The Last of the Forest Dwellers, will share some of the research and stories about such encounters. 

Stay tuned!

A Spectacular Event

We hope you all enjoyed a wonderful 4^th of July!

It's unusual for the entire clan to assemble away from the lodges, but on this special night, like many before, Atnas and Hantar gathered all members at the top of the hill near the river.  The bluff here was densely covered with bayberry and beach plum, to the extent that one could not see the clearing overlooking the harbor amid that ring of vegetation.  The elders sat in the center surrounded by the others, and all rested on woven blankets waiting for the thunderous lights which were about to come.   

Many years before they learned that on this particular night the tall ones let loose with their cannons, shooting high into the air, exploding in great beautiful colors.  They did not know why this had become the custom; but they did know that when the tall one who farmed the land near them lined his drive with flags, the next night the light show would come.  And so it was this eve, and with each loud explosion in the sky above them, came the veils of colored light, every pattern a bit different than the others. They cheered as the intensity of the event grew to its finale; and when it was over they stood and bowed to the southeast where the cannons were fired.  Then they waited for the smoke of the display to drift across the water and fill their nostrils with the scent of the exploding lights, as this heartened their spirits even more and entrenched a memory never to be forgotten.

Impending Storm

The elders met at the lodge that eve to discuss the oncoming summer, and while they knew the abundance of food reserves depended on the warmth and long days of light, their bodies were more suited for a colder climate.  Heavily haired, the summer heat and humidity drove them deep into their lodges where it was cool.  The summer also was known to them to bring great storms from the south, and it was for this reason that they met on this particular night. When all were assembled, Atnas took out the record journal, in which all important events were recorded, and he began to read.    

“That summer was much like others, the days which had gained longevity as the sun reached the zenith, soon slid backward and the harvest months were upon the horizon.  There was a strong feeling in my inner self which caused me to know that a storm would come with this season, and its magnitude would be great, and there would be much destruction.  The tall ones had set their dwellings too close to the waters edge, and they would soon find the wrath of the sea owns that region, as well as the deep.  I know not why I was given this premonition so long before the storm arrived, but I felt it deeply, and it was this that had us prepare well for what was to come.  

The tropers readied their gear, for there would be need to rescue, and food supplies were stored into the lodges.  Early harvest of the berries was completed before the winds of this storm would ruin them; and the matrons readied linens for bodies we knew might come, and then we waited.  Common days went by, as the lower sun filtered through the valley, and all was good.   The heat of the dog days had now subsided and we were almost upon the day when light would equal darkness, when I felt the ground tremble. Although far to the south and many days from our lodges, I could sense the storm’s strength.  All were called together for final preparations, and then it was upon us like no other storm before it.  

As I knew would happen, they suffered terribly as the waters rose quickly along those shores which faced its fury (1).  Even the tall one who farmed the fields just beyond the valley suffered much damage to his crops, and the large tree which shaded his sitting place fell upon his dwelling causing the roof to cave in and much rain entered the opening.”


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(1) Through our research, we believe this account is in reference to the 1938 Hurricane.

The Migrant Fisherman

My research has uncovered numerous stories of unexplained events which support the existence of these little people, and there are even a few which describe actual sightings and interactions. Yet, I must admit I have never encountered them, despite my search. Thus, I have chosen to share some of my findings, and let you be the judge.

This tale comes from the Aldrich family, who, like us, had ancestors that lived in the area once known as Fresh Brook Village. Martha Aldrich came to me after hearing of my research in this area. The story, which follows below, was first told to her when she was about twelve years old.   

In 1972, when she was cleaning out the attic of their grandparents’ home in South Truro, she came upon the written text of the same story.  I have viewed this document, dated 1887, and would say it is of that age; however it could simply be a tall tale written by a well intended parent of her past family, done to humor some young ones. Our family ancestry at Fresh Brook is mentioned in the tale, so that much is fact, and for that reason I have included it in my files. It is copied here word for word from that early document.  

January 1756

A migrant fisherman was staying with friends in what is now South Wellfleet in the area called Fresh Brook Village, and he told of his chance meeting with a family of little people in the early winter of 1756.  It is said that when he described his meeting with these little people to the village residents, they scorned him, saying he was a mad man who drank too much rum. This is the story he told.  It ended in his being driven from the village, never to be heard from again.

“We had just returned from fishing.  The mackerel schools were now much further offshore, and a storm had cut our trip short. I had to walk from the harbor this day, as deep snow kept the carriage in town.  The blinding snow soon made my walk difficult, and I did not know this area well, thus felt uncomfortable as darkness came upon me.  I became disoriented and was not sure what direction I was walking. The cart-way was no longer visible on account of the drifting and accumulating snow.  

I followed what I thought to be a path, and soon found myself at the top of a steep bank overlooking a stream, which my reckoning caused me to believe should be Fresh Brook. Unable to see more than a few feet ahead, and feeling insecure of my place, I decided to climb down the bank and see what direction the water was flowing, as I knew the Fresh Brook stream flowed east to west, and I could simply follow it East the short distance to Jeremiah Atwood’s, where I was staying between offshore trips.  

As I started down the hill, I slipped and went rolling down to the water's edge.  A frightful pain in my right leg, which had struck against a tree during my fall, had me believing my leg was broken.  I tried to use my elbows to pull myself up, but kept sliding back.  After several tries, I lay there exhausted, cold and confused.  It was then that a light caught my attention, just to my left and under some very dense brush.   

Pushing myself a bit closer to the light, which appeared to be coming out of a hole in the hillside, I could smell smoke.  I thought I was now losing my senses because of the numbing cold, and I tried to garnish enough clarity of mind and strength to pull back the branches and peer deeper into the hole. Just as I reached forward, a shrill voice shouted, "Hwert eart yo?” or “Who are you?” as I later decided.   I closed my eyes, and now truly thought I was losing my mind; for I saw a little man standing on the snow-covered log just to my right,  

Again, I closed my eyes in disbelief, but when I opened them the little elf-like fellow was still staring at me.  I was heavily shaken and thought myself to be dead, but I do remember pointing to my leg and telling this apparition, ‘I think I broke my leg.’  The little fellow jumped next to me in one very long leap, much like a cat.  He studied my leg, and then pointed to the hole. "Broo’ors!" he called.  Soon, five other little men were pulling me into the hole.  I was going in and out of a state of consciousness, but inside, I recall, was a large, warm room with a very low ceiling constructed out of cedar planking…and the smell of this cedar reminded me of my mother's dressing chest…  There were passages that led elsewhere and in the center of the room was a small stone fire pit.  I saw three little women, one of whom gave me a drink of what I thought was seasoned rum.

I remember nothing else.  When I awoke, I was in the hay of Jeremiah’s barn with my leg wrapped tightly, and an arrow wood walking stick at my side. Three days had passed since Jeremiah found me asleep in his barn. When I related my tale of these little people, he laughed and told me I was a drunken fool, and that I was no longer fit to be near the children.  The elders soon came and I was told to depart or I would be locked up.

But as surely as we know Christ has risen, I swear this is the truth of that night.”

The Colbus

The little men headed back along the deer trail, which ran east to west through deep thickets at the edge of the swamp. The narrow path then led them up out of the valley into an open area of old pines with a well lit under-story consisting of tall grasses.  Here they stopped to look at a group of moccasin flowers (1). The pink blossoms were highly regarded by the Nubbins, who knew that many of these flowers were taken by the tall ones to add to their gardens.  

After bowing to the blooms, they went on their way, soon to come upon an adult quild (2), who was followed by several very young birds. The older male welcomed the men with its call of “bob-white.” These chicken-like birds of the open forest and field were no longer plentiful as they had once been. The immature birds in this group numbered just four, so the men knew a portion of the brood was likely taken by some predator, as the quild usually have a dozen or more in one hatching. The female may have been taken as well, but with any luck she was sitting on a new brood. They stepped aside off the path, as the small covey headed down hill.   

 © Jarek Tuszynski / Wikimedia Commons /
CC-BY-SA-3.0 & GDFL , via Wikimedia Commons

The patrol went on along the ridge, and then descended down the west slope. Here the thickets once again closed in, and they were now walking through a tunnel of heavy vegetation. Finally they found him slithering through the uppers branches of the blueberry. This Colbus (3) was very large, almost seven feet in length. Each spring the men would visit this place to pay homage to the snake, which could climb so well. They knew the creature was searching the brush for the nests of unsuspecting birds, for it seemed to favor eggs at this time of year. The black snake would also seek out rodents and use its heavy long body to coil around them till they were lifeless. For most this is not a pleasant sight to watch, but for our Nubbins, it was life as it was meant to be.   

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(1) Moccasin flower is another named for Pink Lady Slipper, now threatened in many areas.

(2) Quild is the Nubbin term for the Northern Bobwhite (Quail). Origin of quild unknown.

(3) Colbus is another Nubbin term for which we could find no origin, but it is the name given to the northern black snake.

It is Often Hard to See Danger

Resmis and Dipuc spent the early morning picking ticks off the pulling deer.  Wood ticks are common to them; but the tiny black-legged ticks now frequently found on the animals are becoming much more prevalent in the forest margins, and are likely being brought to the area by migrating birds.  Although Nubbins are not affected by the ticks, as oil in their skin repels them, they are concerned by the number of ticks found on just one deer.   The deer do not seem to exhibit symptoms of illness, yet they know that the ticks carry a disease, a disease which has become more common among the tall ones living nearby.   It is said one child of the tall ones presently cannot walk because of the illness, and is being pushed around in a cart with wheels.  Knowing this is bothersome to the Nubbins, for they usually can find herbal remedies for diseases, even those suffered only by the tall ones, but not in this case.  

Though the elders have long studied the ticks, both adult and nymph stages, they have not found anything apparent on which to build a recipe.  They have learned that the ticks have a two-year life cycle, and like all species of ticks, they require a blood meal to progress to each successive stage in their life cycle. They also have concluded that the disease is likely associated with the white-footed mouse, and it appears the ticks are infected when feeding on this particular rodent.  The disease is then passed on when biting to achieve another blood meal for the next life stage.  This, they are fairly sure of.  Because it is so small, the bite of the nymph is most likely the cause of the disease.  The best way for the tall ones to avoid it is to keep the ticks off their skin and to stay out of areas where the ticks are prevalent.  

The elders have walked the paths frequented by the tall ones, and here they have found the ticks in great numbers.  So small are the dangerous infected nymphs, they can hardly be seen; hanging on the grass, waiting to hitch a ride to get a blood meal on whatever comes along: a deer, a dog, a bird or a tall one.

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 This black legged tick (Ixodes scapularis) is also known as the deer tick.  Ticks are not insects, but are members of the arachnid family.  Adults are about the size of a sesame or apple seed. Nymphs are much smaller about the size of a poppy seed.  Nymphs are active during the late spring and summer months (May to July) and adults are active during the spring and fall.   Most people get Lyme disease (Borrelia burgdorferi) during the summer from infected nymphs because of their small size. Adult deer ticks are large enough to be noticed and generally people can remove them before becoming infected.   Hence, fewer Lyme disease cases are reported outside of the summer months.  The key to avoiding infection is to stay out of vegetated areas, tuck pants into socks when out on walks, wear light colored clothing, and use a repellant with DEET.  

Tree on the Take

It is not surprising that the legends of these diminutive human-like creatures are often disregarded, for most people simply disbelieve. This remains the case despite the fact that many cultures around the world have stories of little people in their history.  Even the amazing discovery of “hobbit like” bones on the Island of Flores near Indonesia in 2004 has not swayed the minds of most.  Even more unlikely heard or believed are the tales from their culture, but knowing the quality of their content, we will share one short translated Nubbin legend with you, and let you decide upon its place in your mind.  These stories always have some type of a moral to teach a lesson.  The following is not about them, but comes from them.

It Takes…Only a Tree

There are those places not to travel and things we shall never know why; and so it is told that deep in the forest to the south, an old tree lies bent, broken and seemingly gone to the world beyond.  But our ancestors have told us that the tree lives and has been in that state for generations long before our time.
  

One like you who has learned to give will never see it, for it lies on a darkened path used by those always on the take.  Most of them never notice and simply pass by, but there are others, perhaps so chosen, who come upon it.  As they look at the tree, a face within they can see, the eyes of which are like white gold and seeing them shine out of the blackened bark, they approach the tree, and it begins to speak:

“I can tell you of a vast treasure; it’s simply yours to take. Come closer and touch my branches and you will see where it is hidden.”  

And so they move in and touch the nearest branch, and with a flash of light, they are justly taken in.  A ragged branch becomes their fate, and the tree takes another soul to fuel its life.  There it stands broken and bent, awaiting another to find its place, another always on the take.

Richard Webb [CC-BY-SA-2.0 (www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

The Adjid

During his early morning patrol, Dipuc found asbans (1) (raccoons) raiding the herring run.  His approach made them run off, but fish scales and carcasses lined both the stream bank and the path that led up out of the valley.  Upon his return to the lodges, he told Atnas of his find and it was decided that a gathering crew would be sent to collect the dead fish.  They would then be taken into the eastern pine forest, where they would be buried next to selected low-bush blueberry plants. This use of dead or stranded fish as a fertilizer for various plants was a common practice, and it is said by some that the method was taught to them by the native tribesmen, yet there is no evidence to prove this. Regardless how they came upon it, the method did indeed seem to improve production, as those bushes of that chosen site always produced more berries than other populations nearby.  

The fish were quickly gathered up, and each crew member now carried a small basket full upon their backs, and they headed out toward the pines.  As they made their way up the hillside, they came upon a large midden of the adjid (2).  Looking up into the large old pine they saw the small animal, which was about half the size of a gray squirrel.  Its red bushy tail standing almost straight up, the fury creature seemed to greet them with a long chattering of clucks and grunts, but they soon realized this chatter was more intended for another adjid making its way toward them. The men laughed as they watched the first jump from branch to branch, chasing the rival male that had entered his territory.  The two scrambled up and down the trees and soon were out of site.  

Adjids are known to store great quantities of food, a practice highly regarded by the Nubbins. Their legends told how the food stores of the adjid had once been used by the clan during the long great winter of many years before.  In fact, it is this legend that is the reason why some adjids are now trained by the elders to store certain berries, to then be collected as needed at a future time.  

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(1) Of interest, Asban is also a Native American (Natick tribe) term for the raccoon meaning more or less ‘one who lifts things up’, seemingly to describe the use of the fore-paws.

(2) Adjid, the Nubbin term for the American Red Squirrel, is likely derived from Native Americans as well, though no source for its origin could be found. These squirrels feed primarily on conifer seeds, and the scales of the cones which hold the seeds often collect in large middens below the favorite dining place of these little animals.  These middens are a sure sign a red squirrel is in the tree above or nearby, as they are very territorial. 

Saskatoon

The edges of the valley were now adorned by the flowers of the tree they called the Saskatoon (1), the blooms of which stood out against the otherwise gray and brown forest still lacking the green of spring.  The Nubbins prepared to celebrate the flowers, for this small tree was a vital part of their culture.  The berries, which would follow the blooms in the month following, were a mainstay of their diet, and were once used in trade with native tribes of the region.  The berries have a pear-like flavor and can be dried and held for long periods of time.  They are often mashed with akarn flour and made into muffins.  The inner bark is used in medicinal preparations, and the wood, being very hard, is used to make handles for their tools.

As was the custom on this joyous day, Atnas and the elders met near the oldest of these trees and here they chanted a Saskatoon verse, which translates as follows:

The great and generous Saskatoon has awakened from its sleep.  

The flowers, a treasure we now see, a celebration of life to keep.

The day will come when they will wilt, but fruit will follow we all do know.

A berry so sweet, a joy to eat, a blessed gift we hold it so.

  

Your wood provides the makings of our tools.

They who fail in honor of thee are simply fools.

May our presence on this day be knowledge of how deep, 

The greatness of your being in our hearts and soul we keep.

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(1) The small tree described here is obviously what we call the shadbush (Amelanchier sp.)   Named shadbush because its blooming coincides with the running of shad in the rivers, it is also called serviceberry by some.  It is interesting that the Nubbins call the tree Saskatoon, as this is the name for the tree and berry in the Canadian Province of Saskatchewan. Saskatoon is said to be derived from native Americans, who also highly regarded this tree and the use of its berries.

Photo by Walter Siegmund (Own work) [GFDL (www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC-BY-SA-3.0-2.5-2.0-1.0 (www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons