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Title: Indian Boyhood

Author: Charles A. Eastman

Release date: July 5, 2008 [eBook #337]
Most recently updated: January 27, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/337

Credits: Produced by Judith Boss, and David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK INDIAN
BOYHOOD ***

INDIAN BOYHOOD

By Ohiyesa (Charles A. Eastman)

CONTENTS

I. EARLIEST RECOLLECTIONS
I. Hadakah, “The Pitiful Last”
II. Early Hardships
III. My Indian Grandmother
IV. An Indian Sugar Camp
V. A Midsummer Feast
II. AN INDIAN BOY’S TRAINING

III. MY PLAYS AND PLAYMATES
I. Games and Sports
II. My Playmates
III: The Boy Hunter
IV. Hakadah’s First Offering

V. FAMILY TRADITIONS
I: A Visit to Smoky Day
II. The Stone Boy

VI. EVENING IN THE LODGE
I: Evening in the Lodge
II. Adventures of My Uncle

VII. THE END OF THE BEAR DANCE

VIII. THE MAIDENS’ FEAST

IX. MORE LEGENDS
I: A Legend of Devil’s Lake
II. Manitoshaw’s Hunting

X. INDIAN LIFE AND ADVENTURE
I: Life in the Woods
II. A Winter Camp
III. Wild Harvests
IV. A Meeting on the Plains
V. An Adventurous Journey
XI. The Laughing Philosopher

XII. FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF CIVILIZATION

I. EARLIEST RECOLLECTIONS

I. Hadakah, “The Pitiful Last”
WHAT boy would not be an Indian for a while when he thinks of the
freest life in the world? This life was mine. Every day there was a real hunt.
There was real game. Occasionally there was a medicine dance away off in
the woods where no one could disturb us, in which the boys impersonated
their elders, Brave Bull, Standing Elk, High Hawk, Medicine Bear, and the
rest. They painted and imitated their fathers and grandfathers to the
minutest detail, and accurately too, because they had seen the real thing all
their lives.
We were not only good mimics but we were close students of nature. We
studied the habits of animals just as you study your books. We watched the
men of our people and represented them in our play; then learned to
emulate them in our lives.
No people have a better use of their five senses than the children of the
wilderness. We could smell as well as hear and see. We could feel and taste
as well as we could see and hear. Nowhere has the memory been more fully
developed than in the wild life, and I can still see wherein I owe much to
my early training.
Of course I myself do not remember when I first saw the day, but my
brothers have often recalled the event with much mirth; for it was a custom
of the Sioux that when a boy was born his brother must plunge into the
water, or roll in the snow naked if it was winter time; and if he was not big
enough to do either of these himself, water was thrown on him. If the new-
born had a sister, she must be immersed. The idea was that a warrior had
come to camp, and the other children must display some act of hardihood.
I was so unfortunate as to be the youngest of five children who, soon
after I was born, were left motherless. I had to bear the humiliating name
“Hakadah,” meaning “the pitiful last,” until I should earn a more dignified
and appropriate name. I was regarded as little more than a plaything by the
rest of the children.
My mother, who was known as the handsomest woman of all the Spirit
Lake and Leaf Dweller Sioux, was dangerously ill, and one of the medicine

men who attended her said: “Another medicine man has come into
existence, but the mother must die. Therefore let him bear the name
‘Mysterious Medicine.’” But one of the bystanders hastily interfered, saying
that an uncle of the child already bore that name, so, for the time, I was only
“Hakadah.”
My beautiful mother, sometimes called the “Demi-Goddess” of the
Sioux, who tradition says had every feature of a Caucasian descent with the
exception of her luxuriant black hair and deep black eyes, held me tightly to
her bosom upon her death-bed, while she whispered a few words to her
mother-in-law. She said: “I give you this boy for your own. I cannot trust
my own mother with him; she will neglect him and he will surely die.”
The woman to whom these words were spoken was below the average in
stature, remarkably active for her age (she was then fully sixty), and
possessed of as much goodness as intelligence. My mother’s judgment
concerning her own mother was well founded, for soon after her death that
old lady appeared, and declared that Hakadah was too young to live without
a mother. She offered to keep me until I died, and then she would put me in
my mother’s grave. Of course my other grandmother denounced the
suggestion as a very wicked one, and refused to give me up.
The babe was done up as usual in a movable cradle made from an oak
board two and a half feet long and one and a half feet wide. On one side of
it was nailed with brass-headed tacks the richly-embroidered sack, which
was open in front and laced up and down with buckskin strings. Over the
arms of the infant was a wooden bow, the ends of which were firmly
attached to the board, so that if the cradle should fall the child’s head and
face would be protected. On this bow were hung curious playthings—
strings of artistically carved bones and hoofs of deer, which rattled when the
little hands moved them.
In this upright cradle I lived, played and slept the greater part of the time
during the first few months of my life. Whether I was made to lean against a
lodge pole or was suspended from a bough of a tree, while my grandmother
cut wood, or whether I was carried on her back, or conveniently balanced
by another child in a similar cradle hung on the opposite side of a pony, I
was still in my oaken bed.
This grandmother, who had already lived through sixty years of
hardships, was a wonder to the young maidens of the tribe. She showed no

less enthusiasm over Hakadah than she had done when she held her first-
born, the boy’s father, in her arms. Every little attention that is due to a
loved child she performed with much skill and devotion. She made all my
scanty garments and my tiny moccasins with a great deal of taste. It was
said by all that I could not have had more attention had my mother been
living.
Uncheedah (grandmother) was a great singer. Sometimes, when Hakadah
wakened too early in the morning, she would sing to him something like the
following lullaby:

Sleep, sleep, my boy, the Chippewas

Are far away—are far away.

Sleep, sleep, my boy; prepare to meet

The foe by day—the foe by day!

The cowards will not dare to fight

Till morning break—till morning break.

Sleep, sleep, my child, while still ‘tis night;

Then bravely wake—then bravely wake!

The Dakota women were wont to cut and bring their fuel from the woods
and, in fact, to perform most of the drudgery of the camp. This of necessity
fell to their lot, because the men must follow the game during the day. Very
often my grandmother carried me with her on these excursions; and while
she worked it was her habit to suspend me from a wild grape vine or a
springy bough, so that the least breeze would swing the cradle to and fro.
She has told me that when I had grown old enough to take notice, I was
apparently capable of holding extended conversations in an unknown
dialect with birds and red squirrels. Once I fell asleep in my cradle,
suspended five or six feet from the ground, while Uncheedah was some
distance away, gathering birch bark for a canoe. A squirrel had found it
convenient to come upon the bow of my cradle and nibble his hickory nut,
until he awoke me by dropping the crumbs of his meal. My disapproval of
his intrusion was so decided that he had to take a sudden and quick flight to
another bough, and from there he began to pour out his wrath upon me,
while I continued my objections to his presence so audibly that Uncheedah

soon came to my rescue, and compelled the bold intruder to go away. It was
a common thing for birds to alight on my cradle in the woods.
My food was, at first, a troublesome question for my kind foster-mother.
She cooked some wild rice and strained it, and mixed it with broth made
from choice venison. She also pounded dried venison almost to a flour, and
kept it in water till the nourishing juices were extracted, then mixed with it
some pounded maize, which was browned before pounding. This soup of
wild rice, pounded venison and maize was my main-stay. But soon my teeth
came—much earlier than the white children usually cut theirs; and then my
good nurse gave me a little more varied food, and I did all my own
grinding.
After I left my cradle, I almost walked away from it, she told me. She
then began calling my attention to natural objects. Whenever I heard the
song of a bird, she would tell me what bird it came from, something after
this fashion:
“Hakadah, listen to Shechoka (the robin) calling his mate. He says he has
just found something good to eat.” Or “Listen to Oopehanska (the thrush);
he is singing for his little wife. He will sing his best.” When in the evening
the whippoorwill started his song with vim, no further than a stone’s throw
from our tent in the woods, she would say to me:
“Hush! It may be an Ojibway scout!”
Again, when I waked at midnight, she would say:
“Do not cry! Hinakaga (the owl) is watching you from the tree-top.”
I usually covered up my head, for I had perfect faith in my grandmother’s
admonitions, and she had given me a dreadful idea of this bird. It was one
of her legends that a little boy was once standing just outside of the teepee
(tent), crying vigorously for his mother, when Hinakaga swooped down in
the darkness and carried the poor little fellow up into the trees. It was well
known that the hoot of the owl was commonly imitated by Indian scouts
when on the war-path. There had been dreadful massacres immediately
following this call. Therefore it was deemed wise to impress the sound early
upon the mind of the child.
Indian children were trained so that they hardly ever cried much in the
night. This was very expedient and necessary in their exposed life. In my
infancy it was my grandmother’s custom to put me to sleep, as she said,

with the birds, and to waken me with them, until it became a habit. She did
this with an object in view. An Indian must always rise early. In the first
place, as a hunter, he finds his game best at daybreak. Secondly, other
tribes, when on the war-path, usually make their attack very early in the
morning. Even when our people are moving about leisurely, we like to rise
before daybreak, in order to travel when the air is cool, and unobserved,
perchance, by our enemies.
As a little child, it was instilled into me to be silent and reticent. This was
one of the most important traits to form in the character of the Indian. As a
hunter and warrior it was considered absolutely necessary to him, and was
thought to lay the foundations of patience and self-control. There are times
when boisterous mirth is indulged in by our people, but the rule is gravity
and decorum.
After all, my babyhood was full of interest and the beginnings of life’s
realities. The spirit of daring was already whispered into my ears. The value
of the eagle feather as worn by the warrior had caught my eye. One day,
when I was left alone, at scarcely two years of age, I took my uncle’s war
bonnet and plucked out all its eagle feathers to decorate my dog and myself.
So soon the life that was about me had made its impress, and already I
desired intensely to comply with all of its demands.

II. Early Hardships
ONE of the earliest recollections of my adventurous childhood is the ride
I had on a pony’s side. I was passive in the whole matter. A little girl cousin
of mine was put in a bag and suspended from the horn of an Indian saddle;
but her weight must be balanced or the saddle would not remain on the
animal’s back. Accordingly, I was put into another sack and made to keep
the saddle and the girl in position! I did not object at all, for I had a very
pleasant game of peek-aboo with the little girl, until we came to a big snow-
drift, where the poor beast was stuck fast and began to lie down. Then it
was not so nice!
This was the convenient and primitive way in which some mothers
packed their children for winter journeys. However cold the weather might
be, the inmate of the fur-lined sack was usually very comfortable—at least I
used to think so. I believe I was accustomed to all the precarious Indian
conveyances, and, as a boy, I enjoyed the dog-travaux ride as much as any.
The travaux consisted of a set of rawhide strips securely lashed to the tent-
poles, which were harnessed to the sides of the animal as if he stood
between shafts, while the free ends were allowed to drag on the ground.
Both ponies and large dogs were used as beasts of burden, and they carried
in this way the smaller children as well as the baggage.
This mode of travelling for children was possible only in the summer,
and as the dogs were sometimes unreliable, the little ones were exposed to a
certain amount of danger. For instance, whenever a train of dogs had been
travelling for a long time, almost perishing with the heat and their heavy
loads, a glimpse of water would cause them to forget all their
responsibilities. Some of them, in spite of the screams of the women, would
swim with their burdens into the cooling stream, and I was thus, on more
than one occasion, made to partake of an unwilling bath.
I was a little over four years old at the time of the “Sioux massacre” in
Minnesota. In the general turmoil, we took flight into British Columbia, and
the journey is still vividly remembered by all our family. A yoke of oxen
and a lumber-wagon were taken from some white farmer and brought home
for our conveyance.

How delighted I was when I learned that we were to ride behind those
wise-looking animals and in that gorgeously painted wagon! It seemed
almost like a living creature to me, this new vehicle with four legs, and the
more so when we got out of axle-grease and the wheels went along
squealing like pigs!
The boys found a great deal of innocent fun in jumping from the high
wagon while the oxen were leisurely moving along. My elder brothers soon
became experts. At last, I mustered up courage enough to join them in this
sport. I was sure they stepped on the wheel, so I cautiously placed my
moccasined foot upon it. Alas! before I could realize what had happened, I
was under the wheels, and had it not been for the neighbor immediately
behind us, I might have been run over by the next team as well.
This was my first experience with a civilized vehicle. I cried out all
possible reproaches on the white man’s team and concluded that a dog-
travaux was good enough for me. I was really rejoiced that we were moving
away from the people who made the wagon that had almost ended my life,
and it did not occur to me that I alone was to blame. I could not be
persuaded to ride in that wagon again and was glad when we finally left it
beside the Missouri river.
The summer after the “Minnesota massacre,” General Sibley pursued our
people across this river. Now the Missouri is considered one of the most
treacherous rivers in the world. Even a good modern boat is not safe upon
its uncertain current. We were forced to cross in buffalo-skin boats—as
round as tubs!
The Washechu (white men) were coming in great numbers with their big
guns, and while most of our men were fighting them to gain time, the
women and the old men made and equipped the temporary boats, braced
with ribs of willow. Some of these were towed by two or three women or
men swimming in the water and some by ponies. It was not an easy matter
to keep them right side up, with their helpless freight of little children and
such goods as we possessed.
In our flight, we little folks were strapped in the saddles or held in front
of an older person, and in the long night marches to get away from the
soldiers, we suffered from loss of sleep and insufficient food. Our meals
were eaten hastily, and sometimes in the saddle. Water was not always to be

found. The people carried it with them in bags formed of tripe or the dried
pericardium of animals.
Now we were compelled to trespass upon the country of hostile tribes
and were harassed by them almost daily and nightly. Only the strictest
vigilance saved us.
One day we met with another enemy near the British lines. It was a
prairie fire. We were surrounded. Another fire was quickly made, which
saved our lives.
One of the most thrilling experiences of the following winter was a
blizzard, which overtook us in our wanderings. Here and there, a family lay
down in the snow, selecting a place where it was not likely to drift much.
For a day and a night we lay under the snow. Uncle stuck a long pole beside
us to tell us when the storm was over. We had plenty of buffalo robes and
the snow kept us warm, but we found it heavy. After a time, it became
packed and hollowed out around our bodies, so that we were as comfortable
as one can be under those circumstances.
The next day the storm ceased, and we discovered a large herd of
buffaloes almost upon us. We dug our way out, shot some of the buffaloes,
made a fire and enjoyed a good dinner.
I was now an exile as well as motherless; yet I was not unhappy. Our
wanderings from place to place afforded us many pleasant experiences and
quite as many hardships and misfortunes. There were times of plenty and
times of scarcity, and we had several narrow escapes from death. In savage
life, the early spring is the most trying time and almost all the famines
occurred at this period of the year.
The Indians are a patient and a clannish people; their love for one another
is stronger than that of any civilized people I know. If this were not so, I
believe there would have been tribes of cannibals among them. White
people have been known to kill and eat their companions in preference to
starving; but Indians—never!
In times of famine, the adults often denied themselves in order to make
the food last as long as possible for the children, who were not able to bear
hunger as well as the old. As a people, they can live without food much
longer than any other nation.

I once passed through one of these hard springs when we had nothing to
eat for several days. I well remember the six small birds which constituted
the breakfast for six families one morning; and then we had no dinner or
supper to follow! What a relief that was to me—although I had only a small
wing of a small bird for my share! Soon after this, we came into a region
where buffaloes were plenty, and hunger and scarcity were forgotten.
Such was the Indian’s wild life! When game was to be had and the sun
shone, they easily forgot the bitter experiences of the winter before. Little
preparation was made for the future. They are children of Nature, and
occasionally she whips them with the lashes of experience, yet they are
forgetful and careless. Much of their suffering might have been prevented
by a little calculation.
During the summer, when Nature is at her best, and provides abundantly
for the savage, it seems to me that no life is happier than his! Food is free—
lodging free—everything free! All were alike rich in the summer, and,
again, all were alike poor in the winter and early spring. However, their
diseases were fewer and not so destructive as now, and the Indian’s health
was generally good. The Indian boy enjoyed such a life as almost all boys
dream of and would choose for themselves if they were permitted to do so.
The raids made upon our people by other tribes were frequent, and we
had to be constantly on the watch. I remember at one time a night attack
was made upon our camp and all our ponies stampeded. Only a few of them
were recovered, and our journeys after this misfortune were effected mostly
by means of the dog-travaux.
The second winter after the massacre, my father and my two older
brothers, with several others, were betrayed by a half-breed at Winnipeg to
the United States authorities. As I was then living with my uncle in another
part of the country, I became separated from them for ten years. During all
this time we believed that they had been killed by the whites, and I was
taught that I must avenge their deaths as soon as I was able to go upon the
war-path.
I must say a word in regard to the character of this uncle, my father’s
brother, who was my adviser and teacher for many years. He was a man
about six feet two inches in height, very erect and broad-shouldered. He
was known at that time as one of the best hunters and bravest warriors

among the Sioux in British America, where he still lives, for to this day we
have failed to persuade him to return to the United States.
He is a typical Indian—not handsome, but truthful and brave. He had a
few simple principles from which he hardly ever departed. Some of these I
shall describe when I speak of my early training.
It is wonderful that any children grew up through all the exposures and
hardships that we suffered in those days! The frail teepee pitched anywhere,
in the winter as well as in the summer, was all the protection that we had
against cold and storms. I can recall times when we were snowed in and it
was very difficult to get fuel. We were once three days without much fire
and all of this time it stormed violently. There seemed to be no special
anxiety on the part of our people; they rather looked upon all this as a
matter of course, knowing that the storm would cease when the time came.
I could once endure as much cold and hunger as any of them; but now if I
miss one meal or accidentally wet my feet, I feel it as much as if I had never
lived in the manner I have described, when it was a matter of course to get
myself soaking wet many a time. Even if there was plenty to eat, it was
thought better for us to practice fasting sometimes; and hard exercise was
kept up continually, both for the sake of health and to prepare the body for
the extraordinary exertions that it might, at any moment, be required to
undergo. In my own remembrance, my uncle used often to bring home a
deer on his shoulder. The distance was sometimes considerable; yet he did
not consider it any sort of a feat.
The usual custom with us was to eat only two meals a day and these were
served at each end of the day. This rule was not invariable, however, for if
there should be any callers, it was Indian etiquette to offer either tobacco or
food, or both. The rule of two meals a day was more closely observed by
the men—especially the younger men—than by the women and children.
This was when the Indians recognized that a true manhood, one of physical
activity and endurance, depends upon dieting and regular exercise. No such
system is practised by the reservation Indians of to-day.

III. My Indian Grandmother
AS a motherless child, I always regarded my good grandmother as the
wisest of guides and the best of protectors. It was not long before I began to
realize her superiority to most of her contemporaries. This idea was not
gained entirely from my own observation, but also from a knowledge of the
high regard in which she was held by other women. Aside from her native
talent and ingenuity, she was endowed with a truly wonderful memory. No
other midwife in her day and tribe could compete with her in skill and
judgment. Her observations in practice were all preserved in her mind for
reference, as systematically as if they had been written upon the pages of a
note-book.
I distinctly recall one occasion when she took me with her into the woods
in search of certain medicinal roots.
“Why do you not use all kinds of roots for medicines?” said I.
“Because,” she replied, in her quick, characteristic manner, “the Great
Mystery does not will us to find things too easily. In that case everybody
would be a medicine-giver, and Ohiyesa must learn that there are many
secrets which the Great Mystery will disclose only to the most worthy. Only
those who seek him fasting and in solitude will receive his signs.”
With this and many similar explanations she wrought in my soul
wonderful and lively conceptions of the “Great Mystery” and of the effects
of prayer and solitude. I continued my childish questioning.
“But why did you not dig those plants that we saw in the woods, of the
same kind that you are digging now?”
“For the same reason that we do not like the berries we find in the
shadow of deep woods as well as the ones which grow in sunny places. The
latter have more sweetness and flavor. Those herbs which have medicinal
virtues should be sought in a place that is neither too wet nor too dry, and
where they have a generous amount of sunshine to maintain their vigor.
“Some day Ohiyesa will be old enough to know the secrets of medicine;
then I will tell him all. But if you should grow up to be a bad man, I must
withhold these treasures from you and give them to your brother, for a

medicine man must be a good and wise man. I hope Ohiyesa will be a great
medicine man when he grows up. To be a great warrior is a noble ambition;
but to be a mighty medicine man is a nobler!”
She said these things so thoughtfully and impressively that I cannot but
feel and remember them even to this day.
Our native women gathered all the wild rice, roots, berries and fruits
which formed an important part of our food. This was distinctively a
woman’s work. Uncheedah (grandmother) understood these matters
perfectly, and it became a kind of instinct with her to know just where to
look for each edible variety and at what season of the year. This sort of
labor gave the Indian women every opportunity to observe and study Nature
after their fashion; and in this Uncheedah was more acute than most of the
men. The abilities of her boys were not all inherited from their father;
indeed, the stronger family traits came obviously from her. She was a leader
among the native women, and they came to her, not only for medical aid,
but for advice in all their affairs.
In bravery she equaled any of the men. This trait, together with her
ingenuity and alertness of mind, more than once saved her and her people
from destruction. Once, when we were roaming over a region occupied by
other tribes, and on a day when most of the men were out upon the hunt, a
party of hostile Indians suddenly appeared. Although there were a few men
left at home, they were taken by surprise at first and scarcely knew what to
do, when this woman came forward and advanced alone to meet our foes.
She had gone some distance when some of the men followed her. She met
the strangers and offered her hand to them. They accepted her friendly
greeting; and as a result of her brave act we were left unmolested and at
peace.
Another story of her was related to me by my father. My grandfather,
who was a noted hunter, often wandered away from his band in search of
game. In this instance he had with him only his own family of three boys
and his wife. One evening, when he returned from the chase, he found to his
surprise that she had built a stockade around her teepee.
She had discovered the danger-sign in a single foot-print, which she saw
at a glance was not that of her husband, and she was also convinced that it
was not the foot-print of a Sioux, from the shape of the moccasin. This

ability to recognize footprints is general among the Indians, but more
marked in certain individuals.
This courageous woman had driven away a party of five Ojibway
warriors. They approached the lodge cautiously, but her dog gave timely
warning, and she poured into them from behind her defences the contents of
a double-barrelled gun, with such good effect that the astonished braves
thought it wise to retreat.
I was not more than five or six years old when the Indian soldiers came
one day and destroyed our large buffalo-skin teepee. It was charged that my
uncle had hunted alone a large herd of buffaloes. This was not exactly true.
He had unfortunately frightened a large herd while shooting a deer in the
edge of the woods. However, it was customary to punish such an act
severely, even though the offense was accidental.
When we were attacked by the police, I was playing in the teepee, and
the only other person at home was Uncheedah. I had not noticed their
approach, and when the war-cry was given by thirty or forty Indians with
strong lungs, I thought my little world was coming to an end. Instantly
innumerable knives and tomahawks penetrated our frail home, while bullets
went through the poles and tent-fastenings up above our heads.
I hardly know what I did, but I imagine it was just what any other little
fellow would have done under like circumstances. My first clear realization
of the situation was when Uncheedah had a dispute with the leader,
claiming that the matter had not been properly investigated, and that none
of the policemen had attained to a reputation in war which would justify
them in touching her son’s teepee. But alas! our poor dwelling was already
an unrecognizable ruin; even the poles were broken into splinters.
The Indian women, after reaching middle age, are usually heavy and lack
agility, but my grandmother was in this also an exception. She was fully
sixty when I was born; and when I was seven years old she swam across a
swift and wide stream, carrying me on her back, because she did not wish to
expose me to accident in one of the clumsy round boats of bull-hide which
were rigged up to cross the rivers which impeded our way, especially in the
springtime. Her strength and endurance were remarkable. Even after she
had attained the age of eighty-two, she one day walked twenty-five miles
without appearing much fatigued.

I marvel now at the purity and elevated sentiment possessed by this
woman, when I consider the customs and habits of her people at the time.
When her husband died she was still comparatively a young woman—still
active, clever and industrious. She was descended from a haughty chieftain
of the “Dwellers among the Leaves.” Although women of her age and
position were held to be eligible to re-marriage, and she had several
persistent suitors who were men of her own age and chiefs, yet she
preferred to cherish in solitude the memory of her husband.
I was very small when my uncle brought home two Ojibway young
women. In the fight in which they were captured, none of the Sioux war
party had been killed; therefore they were sympathized with and tenderly
treated by the Sioux women. They were apparently happy, although of
course they felt deeply the losses sustained at the time of their capture, and
they did not fail to show their appreciation of the kindnesses received at our
hands.
As I recall now the remarks made by one of them at the time of their final
release, they appear to me quite remarkable. They lived in my
grandmother’s family for two years, and were then returned to their people
at a great peace council of the two nations. When they were about to leave
my grandmother, the elder of the two sisters first embraced her, and then
spoke somewhat as follows:
“You are a brave woman and a true mother. I understand now why your
son so bravely conquered our band, and took my sister and myself captive. I
hated him at first, but now I admire him, because he did just what my
father, my brother or my husband would have done had they opportunity.
He did even more. He saved us from the tomahawks of his fellow-warriors,
and brought us to his home to know a noble and a brave woman.
“I shall never forget your many favors shown to us. But I must go. I
belong to my tribe and I shall return to them. I will endeavor to be a true
woman also, and to teach my boys to be generous warriors like your son.”
Her sister chose to remain among the Sioux all her life, and she married
one of our young men.
“I shall make the Sioux and the Ojibways,” she said, “to be as brothers.”
There are many other instances of intermarriage with captive women.
The mother of the well-known Sioux chieftain, Wabashaw, was an Ojibway
woman. I once knew a woman who was said to be a white captive. She was

married to a noted warrior, and had a fine family of five boys. She was well
accustomed to the Indian ways, and as a child I should not have suspected
that she was white. The skins of these people became so sunburned and full
of paint that it required a keen eye to distinguish them from the real Indians.

IV. An Indian Sugar Camp
WITH the first March thaw the thoughts of the Indian women of my
childhood days turned promptly to the annual sugarmaking. This industry
was chiefly followed by the old men and women and the children. The rest
of the tribe went out upon the spring fur-hunt at this season, leaving us at
home to make the sugar.
The first and most important of the necessary utensils were the huge iron
and brass kettles for boiling. Everything else could be made, but these must
be bought, begged or borrowed. A maple tree was felled and a log canoe
hollowed out, into which the sap was to be gathered. Little troughs of
basswood and birchen basins were also made to receive the sweet drops as
they trickled from the tree.
As soon as these labors were accomplished, we all proceeded to the bark
sugar house, which stood in the midst of a fine grove of maples on the bank
of the Minnesota river. We found this hut partially filled with the snows of
winter and the withered leaves of the preceding autumn, and it must be
cleared for our use. In the meantime a tent was pitched outside for a few
days’ occupancy. The snow was still deep in the woods, with a solid crust
upon which we could easily walk; for we usually moved to the sugar house
before the sap had actually started, the better to complete our preparations.
My grandmother worked like a beaver in these days (or rather like a
muskrat, as the Indians say; for this industrious little animal sometimes
collects as many as six or eight bushels of edible roots for the winter, only
to be robbed of his store by some of our people). If there was prospect of a
good sugaring season, she now made a second and even a third canoe to
contain the sap. These canoes were afterward utilized by the hunters for
their proper purpose.
During our last sugar-making in Minnesota, before the “outbreak,” my
grandmother was at work upon a canoe with her axe, while a young aunt of
mine stood by. We boys were congregated within the large, oval sugar
house, busily engaged in making arrows for the destruction of the rabbits
and chipmunks which we knew would come in numbers to drink the sap.

The birds also were beginning to return, and the cold storms of March
would drive them to our door. I was then too young to do much except look
on; but I fully entered into the spirit of the occasion, and rejoiced to see the
bigger boys industriously sharpen their arrows, resting them against the
ends of the long sticks which were burning in the fire, and occasionally
cutting a chip from the stick. In their eagerness they paid little attention to
this circumstance, although they well knew that it was strictly forbidden to
touch a knife to a burning ember.
Suddenly loud screams were heard from without and we all rushed out to
see what was the matter. It was a serious affair. My grandmother’s axe had
slipped, and by an upward stroke nearly severed three of the fingers of my
aunt, who stood looking on, with her hands folded upon her waist. As we
ran out the old lady, who had already noticed and reproved our carelessness
in regard to the burning embers, pursued us with loud reproaches and
threats of a whipping. This will seem mysterious to my readers, but is easily
explained by the Indian superstition, which holds that such an offense as we
had committed is invariably punished by the accidental cutting of some one
of the family.
My grandmother did not confine herself to canoe-making. She also
collected a good supply of fuel for the fires, for she would not have much
time to gather wood when the sap began to flow. Presently the weather
moderated and the snow began to melt. The month of April brought
showers which carried most of it off into the Minnesota river. Now the
women began to test the trees-moving leisurely among them, axe in hand,
and striking a single quick blow, to see if the sap would appear. The trees,
like people, have their individual characters; some were ready to yield up
their life-blood, while others were more reluctant. Now one of the birchen
basins was set under each tree, and a hardwood chip driven deep into the
cut which the axe had made. From the corners of this chip—at first drop by
drop, then more freely-the sap trickled into the little dishes.
It is usual to make sugar from maples, but several other trees were also
tapped by the Indians. From the birch and ash was made a dark-colored
sugar, with a somewhat bitter taste, which was used for medicinal purposes.
The box-elder yielded a beautiful white sugar, whose only fault was that
there was never enough of it!

A long fire was now made in the sugar house, and a row of brass kettles
suspended over the blaze. The sap was collected by the women in tin or
birchen buckets and poured into the canoes, from which the kettles were
kept filled. The hearts of the boys beat high with pleasant anticipations
when they heard the welcome hissing sound of the boiling sap! Each boy
claimed one kettle for his especial charge. It was his duty to see that the fire
was kept up under it, to watch lest it boil over, and finally, when the sap
became sirup, to test it upon the snow, dipping it out with a wooden paddle.
So frequent were these tests that for the first day or two we consumed
nearly all that could be made; and it was not until the sweetness began to
pall that my grandmother set herself in earnest to store up sugar for future
use. She made it into cakes of various forms, in birchen molds, and
sometimes in hollow canes or reeds, and the bills of ducks and geese. Some
of it was pulverized and packed in rawhide cases. Being a prudent woman,
she did not give it to us after the first month or so, except upon special
occasions, and it was thus made to last almost the year around. The smaller
candies were reserved as an occasional treat for the little fellows, and the
sugar was eaten at feasts with wild rice or parched corn, and also with
pounded dried meat. Coffee and tea, with their substitutes, were all
unknown to us in those days.
Every pursuit has its trials and anxieties. My grandmother’s special
tribulations, during the sugaring season, were the upsetting and gnawing of
holes in her birch-bark pans. The transgressors were the rabbit and squirrel
tribes, and we little boys for once became useful, in shooting them with our
bows and arrows. We hunted all over the sugar camp, until the little
creatures were fairly driven out of the neighborhood. Occasionally one of
my older brothers brought home a rabbit or two, and then we had a feast.
The sugaring season extended well into April, and the returning birds
made the precincts of our camp joyful with their songs. I often followed my
older brothers into the woods, although I was then but four or five years
old. Upon one of these excursions they went so far that I ventured back
alone. When within sight of our hut, I saw a chipmunk sitting upon a log,
and uttering the sound he makes when he calls to his mate. How glorious it
would be, I thought, if I could shoot him with my tiny bow and arrows!
Stealthily and cautiously I approached, keeping my eyes upon the pretty
little animal, and just as I was about to let fly my shaft, I heard a hissing
noise at my feet. There lay a horrid snake, coiled and ready to spring!

Forgetful that I was a warrior, I gave a loud scream and started backward;
but soon recollecting myself, looked down with shame, although no one
was near. However, I retreated to the inclined trunk of a fallen tree, and
there, as I have often been told, was overheard soliloquizing in the
following words: “I wonder if a snake can climb a tree!”
I remember on this occasion of our last sugar bush in Minnesota, that I
stood one day outside of our hut and watched the approach of a visitor—a
bent old man, his hair almost white, and carrying on his back a large bundle
of red willow, or kinnikinick, which the Indians use for smoking. He threw
down his load at the door and thus saluted us: “You have indeed perfect
weather for sugar-making.”
It was my great-grandfather, Cloud Man, whose original village was on
the shores of Lakes Calhoun and Harriet, now in the suburbs of the city of
Minneapolis. He was the first Sioux chief to welcome the Protestant
missionaries among his people, and a well-known character in those pioneer
days. He brought us word that some of the peaceful sugar-makers near us
on the river had been attacked and murdered by roving Ojibways. This
news disturbed us not a little, for we realized that we too might become the
victims of an Ojibway war party. Therefore we all felt some uneasiness
from this time until we returned heavy laden to our village.

V. A Midsummer Feast
IT was midsummer. Everything that the Santee Sioux had undertaken
during the year had been unusually successful. The spring fur-hunters had
been fortunate, and the heavy winter had proved productive of much maple
sugar. The women’s patches of maize and potatoes were already sufficiently
advanced to use. The Wahpetonwan band of Sioux, the “Dwellers among
the Leaves,” were fully awakened to the fact that it was almost time for the
midsummer festivities of the old, wild days.
The invitations were bundles of tobacco, and acceptances were sent back
from the various bands—the “Light Lodges”, “Dwellers back from the
River,” and many others, in similar fashion. Blue Earth, chief of the
“Dwellers among the Leaves,” was the host.
There were to be many different kinds of athletic games; indeed, the
festival was something like a State fair, in that there were many side shows
and competitive events. For instance, supposing that (Miss) White Rabbit
should desire to give a “maidens’ feast,” she would employ a crier to go
among the different bands announcing the fact in a sing-song manner:
“Miss White Rabbit will receive her maiden friends to-day at noon,
inside of the circular encampment of the Kaposia band.”
Again, should (Mr.) Sleepy Eye wish to have his child’s ears pierced
publicly, he would have to give away a great deal of savage wealth—
namely, otter, bear and beaver skins and ponies—or the child would not be
considered as belonging to a family in good standing.
But the one all-important event of the occasion was the lacrosse game,
for which it had been customary to select those two bands which could
boast the greater number of fast runners.
The Wahpetonwan village on the banks of the Minnesota river was alive
with the newly-arrived guests and the preparations for the coming event.
Meat of wild game had been put away with much care during the previous
fall in anticipation of this feast. There was wild rice and the choicest of
dried venison that had been kept all winter, as well as freshly dug turnips,
ripe berries and an abundance of fresh meat.

Along the edge of the woods the teepees were pitched in groups or semi-
circles, each band distinct from the others. The teepee of Mankato or Blue
Earth was pitched in a conspicuous spot. Just over the entrance was painted
in red and yellow a picture of a pipe, and directly opposite this the rising
sun. The painting was symbolic of welcome and good will to men under the
bright sun.
A meeting was held to appoint some “medicine man” to make the balls
that were to be used in the lacrosse contest; and presently the herald
announced that this honor had been conferred upon old Chankpee-yuhah, or
“Keeps the Club,” while every other man of his profession was
disappointed. He was a powerful man physically, who had apparently won
the confidence of the people by his fine personal appearance and by
working upon superstitious minds.
Towards evening he appeared in the circle, leading by the hand a boy
about four years old. Closely the little fellow observed every motion of the
man; nothing escaped his vigilant black eyes, which seemed constantly to
grow brighter and larger, while his exuberant glossy black hair was plaited
and wound around his head like that of a Celestial. He wore a bit of swan’s
down in each ear, which formed a striking contrast with the child’s
complexion. Further than this, the boy was painted according to the fashion
of the age. He held in his hands a miniature bow and arrows.
The medicine man drew himself up in an admirable attitude, and
proceeded to make his short speech:
“Wahpetonwans, you boast that you run down the elk; you can outrun the
Ojibways. Before you all, I dedicate to you this red ball. Kaposias, you
claim that no one has a lighter foot than you; you declare that you can
endure running a whole day without water. To you I dedicate this black ball.
Either you or the Leaf-Dwellers will have to drop your eyes and bow your
head when the game is over. I wish to announce that if the Wahpetonwans
should win, this little warrior shall bear the name Ohiyesa (winner) through
life; but if the Light Lodges should win, let the name be given to any child
appointed by them.”
The ground selected for the great final game was on a narrow strip of
land between a lake and the river. It was about three quarters of a mile long
and a quarter of a mile in width. The spectators had already ranged
themselves all along the two sides, as well as at the two ends, which were

somewhat higher than the middle. The soldiers appointed to keep order
furnished much of the entertainment of the day. They painted artistically
and tastefully, according to the Indian fashion, not only their bodies but also
their ponies and clubs. They were so strict in enforcing the laws that no one
could venture with safety within a few feet of the limits of the field.
Now all of the minor events and feasts, occupying several days’ time, had
been observed. Heralds on ponies’ backs announced that all who intended to
participate in the final game were requested to repair to the ground; also
that if any one bore a grudge against another, he was implored to forget his
ill-feeling until the contest should be over.
The most powerful men were stationed at the half-way ground, while the
fast runners were assigned to the back. It was an impressive spectacle—a
fine collection of agile forms, almost stripped of garments and painted in
wild imitation of the rainbow and sunset sky on human canvas. Some had
undertaken to depict the Milky Way across their tawny bodies, and one or
two made a bold attempt to reproduce the lightning. Others contented
themselves with painting the figure of some fleet animal or swift bird on
their muscular chests.
The coiffure of the Sioux lacrosse player has often been unconsciously
imitated by the fashionable hair-dressers of modern times. Some banged
and singed their hair; others did a little more by adding powder. The
Grecian knot was located on the wrong side of the head, being tied tightly
over the forehead. A great many simply brushed back their long locks and
tied them with a strip of otter skin.
At the middle of the ground were stationed four immense men,
magnificently formed. A fifth approached this group, paused a moment, and
then threw his head back, gazed up into the sky in the manner of a cock and
gave a smooth, clear operatic tone. Instantly the little black ball went up
between the two middle rushers, in the midst of yells, cheers and war-
whoops. Both men endeavored to catch it in the air; but alas! each
interfered with the other; then the guards on each side rushed upon them.
For a time, a hundred lacrosse sticks vied with each other, and the wriggling
human flesh and paint were all one could see through the cloud of dust.
Suddenly there shot swiftly through the air toward the south, toward the
Kaposias’ goal, the ball. There was a general cheer from their adherents,

which echoed back from the white cliff on the opposite side of the
Minnesota.
As the ball flew through the air, two adversaries were ready to receive it.
The Kaposia quickly met the ball, but failed to catch it in his netted bag, for
the other had swung his up like a flash. Thus it struck the ground, but had
no opportunity to bound up when a Wahpeton pounced upon it like a cat
and slipped out of the grasp of his opponents. A mighty cheer thundered
through the air.
The warrior who had undertaken to pilot the little sphere was risking
much, for he must dodge a host of Kaposias before he could gain any
ground. He was alert and agile; now springing like a panther, now leaping
like a deer over a stooping opponent who tried to seize him around the
waist. Every opposing player was upon his heels, while those of his own
side did all in their power to clear the way for him. But it was all in vain.
He only gained fifty paces.
Thus the game went. First one side, then the other would gain an
advantage, and then it was lost, until the herald proclaimed that it was time
to change the ball. No victory was in sight for either side.
After a few minutes’ rest, the game was resumed. The red ball was now
tossed in the air in the usual way. No sooner had it descended than one of
the rushers caught it and away it went northward; again it was fortunate, for
it was advanced by one of the same side. The scene was now one of the
wildest excitement and confusion. At last, the northward flight of the ball
was checked for a moment and a desperate struggle ensued. Cheers and
war-whoops became general, such as were never equaled in any concourse
of savages, and possibly nowhere except at a college game of football.
The ball had not been allowed to come to the surface since it reached this
point, for there were more than a hundred men who scrambled for it.
Suddenly a warrior shot out of the throng like the ball itself! Then some of
the players shouted: “Look out for Antelope! Look out for Antelope!” But it
was too late. The little sphere had already nestled into Antelope’s palm and
that fleetest of Wahpetons had thrown down his lacrosse stick and set a
determined eye upon the northern goal.
Such a speed! He had cleared almost all the opponents’ guards—there
were but two more. These were exceptional runners of the Kaposias. As he
approached them in his almost irresistible speed, every savage heart

thumped louder in the Indian’s dusky bosom. In another moment there
would be a defeat for the Kaposias or a prolongation of the game. The two
men, with a determined look approached their foe like two panthers
prepared to spring; yet he neither slackened his speed nor deviated from his
course. A crash—a mighty shout!—the two Kaposias collided, and the swift
Antelope had won the laurels!
The turmoil and commotion at the victors’ camp were indescribable. A
few beats of a drum were heard, after which the criers hurried along the
lines, announcing the last act to be performed at the camp of the “Leaf
Dwellers.”
The day had been a perfect one. Every event had been a success; and, as
a matter of course, the old people were happy, for they largely profited by
these occasions. Within the circle formed by the general assembly sat in a
group the members of the common council. Blue Earth arose, and in a few
appropriate and courteous remarks assured his guests that it was not
selfishness that led his braves to carry off the honors of the last event, but
that this was a friendly contest in which each band must assert its prowess.
In memory of this victory, the boy would now receive his name. A loud
“Ho-o-o” of approbation reverberated from the edge of the forest upon the
Minnesota’s bank.
Half frightened, the little fellow was now brought into the circle, looking
very much as if he were about to be executed. Cheer after cheer went up for
the awe-stricken boy. Chankpee-yuhah, the medicine man, proceeded to
confer the name.
“Ohiyesa (or Winner) shall be thy name henceforth. Be brave, be patient
and thou shalt always win! Thy name is Ohivesa.”

II. AN INDIAN BOY’S TRAINING
IT is commonly supposed that there is no systematic education of their
children among the aborigines of this country. Nothing could be farther
from the truth. All the customs of this primitive people were held to be
divinely instituted, and those in connection with the training of children
were scrupulously adhered to and transmitted from one generation to
another.
The expectant parents conjointly bent all their efforts to the task of giving
the new-comer the best they could gather from a long line of ancestors. A
pregnant Indian woman would often choose one of the greatest characters
of her family and tribe as a model for her child. This hero was daily called
to mind. She would gather from tradition all of his noted deeds and daring
exploits, rehearsing them to herself when alone. In order that the impression
might be more distinct, she avoided company. She isolated herself as much
as possible, and wandered in solitude, not thoughtlessly, but with an eye to
the impress given by grand and beautiful scenery.
The Indians believed, also, that certain kinds of animals would confer
peculiar gifts upon the unborn, while others would leave so strong an
adverse impression that the child might become a monstrosity. A case of
hare-lip was commonly attributed to the rabbit. It was said that a rabbit had
charmed the mother and given to the babe its own features. Even the meat
of certain animals was denied the pregnant woman, because it was
supposed to influence the disposition or features of the child.
Scarcely was the embyro warrior ushered into the world, when he was
met by lullabies that speak of wonderful exploits in hunting and war. Those
ideas which so fully occupied his mother’s mind before his birth are now
put into words by all about the child, who is as yet quite unresponsive to
their appeals to his honor and ambition. He is called the future defender of
his people, whose lives may depend upon his courage and skill. If the child
is a girl, she is at once addressed as the future mother of a noble race.
In hunting songs, the leading animals are introduced; they come to the
boy to offer their bodies for the sustenance of his tribe. The animals are

regarded as his friends, and spoken of almost as tribes of people, or as his
cousins, grandfathers and grandmothers. The songs of wooing, adapted as
lullabies, were equally imaginative, and the suitors were often animals
personified, while pretty maidens were represented by the mink and the
doe.
Very early, the Indian boy assumed the task of preserving and
transmitting the legends of his ancestors and his race. Almost every evening
a myth, or a true story of some deed done in the past, was narrated by one
of the parents or grandparents, while the boy listened with parted lips and
glistening eyes. On the following evening, he was usually required to repeat
it. If he was not an apt scholar, he struggled long with his task; but, as a
rule, the Indian boy is a good listener and has a good memory, so that the
stories were tolerably well mastered. The household became his audience,
by which he was alternately criticized and applauded.
This sort of teaching at once enlightens the boy’s mind and stimulates his
ambition. His conception of his own future career becomes a vivid and
irresistible force. Whatever there is for him to learn must be learned;
whatever qualifications are necessary to a truly great man he must seek at
any expense of danger and hardship. Such was the feeling of the
imaginative and brave young Indian. It became apparent to him in early life
that he must accustom himself to rove alone and not to fear or dislike the
impression of solitude.
It seems to be a popular idea that all the characteristic skill of the Indian
is instinctive and hereditary. This is a mistake. All the stoicism and patience
of the Indian are acquired traits, and continual practice alone makes him
master of the art of wood-craft. Physical training and dieting were not
neglected. I remember that I was not allowed to have beef soup or any
warm drink. The soup was for the old men. General rules for the young
were never to take their food very hot, nor to drink much water.
My uncle, who educated me up to the age of fifteen years, was a strict
disciplinarian and a good teacher. When I left the teepee in the morning, he
would say: “Hakadah, look closely to everything you see”; and at evening,
on my return, he used often to catechize me for an hour or so.
“On which side of the trees is the lighter-colored bark? On which side do
they have most regular branches?”

It was his custom to let me name all the new birds that I had seen during
the day. I would name them according to the color or the shape of the bill or
their song or the appearance and locality of the nest—in fact, anything
about the bird that impressed me as characteristic. I made many ridiculous
errors, I must admit. He then usually informed me of the correct name.
Occasionally I made a hit and this he would warmly commend.
He went much deeper into this science when I was a little older, that is,
about the age of eight or nine years. He would say, for instance:
“How do you know that there are fish in yonder lake?”
“Because they jump out of the water for flies at mid-day.”
He would smile at my prompt but superficial reply.
“What do you think of the little pebbles grouped together under the
shallow water? and what made the pretty curved marks in the sandy bottom
and the little sand-banks? Where do you find the fish-eating birds? Have the
inlet and the outlet of a lake anything to do with the question?”
He did not expect a correct reply at once to all the voluminous questions
that he put to me on these occasions, but he meant to make me observant
and a good student of nature.
“Hakadah,” he would say to me, “you ought to follow the example of the
shunktokecha (wolf). Even when he is surprised and runs for his life, he
will pause to take one more look at you before he enters his final retreat. So
you must take a second look at everything you see.
“It is better to view animals unobserved. I have been a witness to their
courtships and their quarrels and have learned many of their secrets in this
way. I was once the unseen spectator of a thrilling battle between a pair of
grizzly bears and three buffaloes—a rash act for the bears, for it was in the
moon of strawberries, when the buffaloes sharpen and polish their horns for
bloody contests among themselves.
“I advise you, my boy, never to approach a grizzly’s den from the front,
but to steal up behind and throw your blanket or a stone in front of the hole.
He does not usually rush for it, but first puts his head out and listens and
then comes out very indifferently and sits on his haunches on the mound in
front of the hole before he makes any attack. While he is exposing himself
in this fashion, aim at his heart. Always be as cool as the animal himself.”

Thus he armed me against the cunning of savage beasts by teaching me how
to outwit them.
“In hunting,” he would resume, “you will be guided by the habits of the
animal you seek. Remember that a moose stays in swampy or low land or
between high mountains near a spring or lake, for thirty to sixty days at a
time. Most large game moves about continually, except the doe in the
spring; it is then a very easy matter to find her with the fawn. Conceal
yourself in a convenient place as soon as you observe any signs of the
presence of either, and then call with your birchen doe-caller.
“Whichever one hears you first will soon appear in your neighborhood.
But you must be very watchful, or you may be made a fawn of by a large
wild-cat. They understand the characteristic call of the doe perfectly well.
“When you have any difficulty with a bear or a wild-cat—that is, if the
creature shows signs of attacking you—you must make him fully
understand that you have seen him and are aware of his intentions. If you
are not well equipped for a pitched battle, the only way to make him retreat
is to take a long sharp-pointed pole for a spear and rush toward him. No
wild beast will face this unless he is cornered and already wounded, These
fierce beasts are generally afraid of the common weapon of the larger
animals—the horns, and if these are very long and sharp, they dare not risk
an open fight.
“There is one exception to this rule—the grey wolf will attack fiercely
when very hungry. But their courage depends upon their numbers; in this
they are like white men. One wolf or two will never attack a man. They will
stampede a herd of buffaloes in order to get at the calves; they will rush
upon a herd of antelopes, for these are helpless; but they are always careful
about attacking man.”
Of this nature were the instructions of my uncle, who was widely known
at that time as among the greatest hunters of his tribe.
All boys were expected to endure hardship without complaint. In savage
warfare, a young man must, of course, be an athlete and used to undergoing
all sorts of privations. He must be able to go without food and water for two
or three days without displaying any weakness, or to run for a day and a
night without any rest. He must be able to traverse a pathless and wild
country without losing his way either in the day or night time. He cannot
refuse to do any of these things if he aspires to be a warrior.

Sometimes my uncle would waken me very early in the morning and
challenge me to fast with him all day. I had to accept the challenge. We
blackened our faces with charcoal, so that every boy in the village would
know that I was fasting for the day. Then the little tempters would make my
life a misery until the merciful sun hid behind the western hills.
I can scarcely recall the time when my stern teacher began to give sudden
war-whoops over my head in the morning while I was sound asleep. He
expected me to leap up with perfect presence of mind, always ready to
grasp a weapon of some sort and to give a shrill whoop in reply. If I was
sleepy or startled and hardly knew what I was about, he would ridicule me
and say that I need never expect to sell my scalp dear. Often he would vary
these tactics by shooting off his gun just outside of the lodge while I was
yet asleep, at the same time giving blood-curdling yells. After a time I
became used to this.
When Indians went upon the war-path, it was their custom to try the new
warriors thoroughly before coming to an engagement. For instance, when
they were near a hostile camp, they would select the novices to go after the
water and make them do all sorts of things to prove their courage. In
accordance with this idea, my uncle used to send me off after water when
we camped after dark in a strange place. Perhaps the country was full of
wild beasts, and, for aught I knew, there might be scouts from hostile bands
of Indians lurking in that very neighborhood.
Yet I never objected, for that would show cowardice. I picked my way
through the woods, dipped my pail in the water and hurried back, always
careful to make as little noise as a cat. Being only a boy, my heart would
leap at every crackling of a dry twig or distant hooting of an owl, until, at
last, I reached our teepee. Then my uncle would perhaps say: “Ah,
Hakadah, you are a thorough warrior,” empty out the precious contents of
the pail, and order me to go a second time.
Imagine how I felt! But I wished to be a brave man as much as a white
boy desires to be a great lawyer or even President of the United States.
Silently I would take the pail and endeavor to retrace my footsteps in the
dark.
With all this, our manners and morals were not neglected. I was made to
respect the adults and especially the aged. I was not allowed to join in their
discussions, nor even to speak in their presence, unless requested to do so.

Indian etiquette was very strict, and among the requirements was that of
avoiding the direct address. A term of relationship or some title of courtesy
was commonly used instead of the personal name by those who wished to
show respect. We were taught generosity to the poor and reverence for the
“Great Mystery.” Religion was the basis of all Indian training.
I recall to the present day some of the kind warnings and reproofs that
my good grandmother was wont to give me. “Be strong of heart—be
patient!” she used to say. She told me of a young chief who was noted for
his uncontrollable temper. While in one of his rages he attempted to kill a
woman, for which he was slain by his own band and left unburied as a mark
of disgrace—his body was simply covered with green grass. If I ever lost
my temper, she would say:
“Hakadah, control yourself, or you will be like that young man I told you
of, and lie under a green blanket!”
In the old days, no young man was allowed to use tobacco in any form
until he had become an acknowledged warrior and had achieved a record. If
a youth should seek a wife before he had reached the age of twenty-two or
twenty-three, and been recognized as a brave man, he was sneered at and
considered an ill-bred Indian. He must also be a skillful hunter. An Indian
cannot be a good husband unless he brings home plenty of game.
These precepts were in the line of our training for the wild life.

III. MY PLAYS AND PLAYMATES

I. Games and Sports
THE Indian boy was a prince of the wilderness. He had but very little
work to do during the period of his boyhood. His principal occupation was
the practice of a few simple arts in warfare and the chase. Aside from this,
he was master of his time.
Whatever was required of us boys was quickly performed: then the field
was clear for our games and plays. There was always keen competition
among us. We felt very much as our fathers did in hunting and war—each
one strove to excel all the others.
It is true that our savage life was a precarious one, and full of dreadful
catastrophes; however, this never prevented us from enjoying our sports to
the fullest extent. As we left our teepees in the morning, we were never sure
that our scalps would not dangle from a pole in the afternoon! It was an
uncertain life, to be sure. Yet we observed that the fawns skipped and
played happily while the gray wolves might be peeping forth from behind
the hills, ready to tear them limb from limb.
Our sports were molded by the life and customs of our people; indeed,
we practiced only what we expected to do when grown. Our games were
feats with the bow and arrow, foot and pony races, wrestling, swimming
and imitation of the customs and habits of our fathers. We had sham fights
with mud balls and willow wands; we played lacrosse, made war upon bees,
shot winter arrows (which were used only in that season), and coasted upon
the ribs of animals and buffalo robes.
No sooner did the boys get together than, as a usual thing, they divided
into squads and chose sides; then a leading arrow was shot at random into
the air. Before it fell to the ground a volley from the bows of the
participants followed. Each player was quick to note the direction and speed
of the leading arrow and he tried to send his own at the same speed and at
an equal height, so that when it fell it would be closer to the first than any
of the others.
It was considered out of place to shoot by first sighting the object aimed
at. This was usually impracticable in actual life, because the object was

almost always in motion, while the hunter himself was often upon the back
of a pony at full gallop. Therefore, it was the off-hand shot that the Indian
boy sought to master. There was another game with arrows that was
characterized by gambling, and was generally confined to the men.
The races were an every-day occurrence. At noon the boys were usually
gathered by some pleasant sheet of water and as soon as the ponies were
watered, they were allowed to graze for an hour or two, while the boys
stripped for their noonday sports. A boy might say to some other whom he
considered his equal:
“I can’t run; but I will challenge you to fifty paces.”
A former hero, when beaten, would often explain his defeat by saying: “I
drank too much water.”
Boys of all ages were paired for a “spin,” and the little red men cheered
on their favorites with spirit.
As soon as this was ended, the pony races followed. All the speedy
ponies were picked out and riders chosen. If a boy declined to ride, there
would be shouts of derision.
Last of all came the swimming. A little urchin would hang to his pony’s
long tail, while the latter, with only his head above water, glided sportively
along. Finally the animals were driven into a fine field of grass and we
turned our attention to other games.
Lacrosse was an older game and was confined entirely to the Sisseton
and Santee Sioux. Shinny, such as is enjoyed by white boys on the ice, is
still played on the open prairie by the western Sioux. The “moccasin game,”
although sometimes played by the boys, was intended mainly for adults.
The “mud-and-willow” fight was rather a severe and dangerous sport. A
lump of soft clay was stuck on the end of a limber and springy willow wand
and thrown as boys throw apples from sticks, with considerable force.
When there were fifty or a hundred players on each side, the battle became
warm; but anything to arouse the bravery of Indian boys seemed to them a
good and wholesome diversion.
Wrestling was largely indulged in by us all. It may seem odd,, but
wrestling was done by a great many boys at once—from ten to any number
on a side. It was really a battle, in which each one chose his opponent. The
rule was that if a boy sat down, he was let alone, but as long as he remained

standing within the field, he was open to an attack. No one struck with the
hand, but all manner of tripping with legs and feet and butting with the
knees was allowed. Altogether it was an exhausting pastime—fully equal to
the American game of football and only the young athlete could really
enjoy it.
One of our most curious sports was a war upon the nests of wild bees. We
imagined ourselves about to make an attack upon the Ojibways or some
tribal foe. We all painted and stole cautiously upon the nest; then, with a
rush and warwhoop, sprang upon the object of our attack and endeavored to
destroy it. But it seemed that the bees were always on the alert and never
entirely surprised, for they always raised quite as many scalps as did their
bold assailants! After the onslaught upon the nest was ended, we usually
followed it by a pretended scalp dance.
On the occasion of my first experience in this mode of warfare, there
were two other little boys who were also novices. One of them particularly
was really too young to indulge in an exploit of that kind. As it was the
custom of our people, when they killed or wounded an enemy on the battle
field, to announce the act in a loud voice, we did the same. My friend, Little
Wound (as I will call him, for I do not remember his name), being quite
small, was unable to reach the nest until it had been well trampled upon and
broken and the insects had made a counter charge with such vigor as to
repulse and scatter our numbers in every direction. However, he evidently
did not want to retreat without any honors; so he bravely jumped upon the
nest and yelled:
“I, the brave Little Wound, to-day kill the only fierce enemy!”
Scarcely were the last words uttered when he screamed as if stabbed to
the heart. One of his older companions shouted:
“Dive into the water! Run! Dive into the water!” for there was a lake near
by. This advice he obeyed.
When we had reassembled and were indulging in our mimic dance, Little
Wound was not allowed to dance. He was considered not to be in existence
—he had been killed by our enemies, the Bee tribe. Poor little fellow! His
swollen face was sad and ashamed as he sat on a fallen log and watched the
dance. Although he might well have styled himself one of the noble dead
who had died for their country, yet he was not unmindful that he had

screamed, and this weakness would be apt to recur to him many times in the
future.
We had some quiet plays which we alternated with the more severe and
warlike ones. Among them were throwing wands and snow-arrows. In the
winter we coasted much. We had no “double-rippers” or toboggans, but six
or seven of the long ribs of a buffalo, fastened together at the larger end,
answered all practical purposes. Sometimes a strip of bass-wood bark, four
feet long and about six inches wide, was used with considerable skill. We
stood on one end and held the other, using the slippery inside of the bark for
the outside, and thus coasting down long hills with remarkable speed.
The spinning of tops was one of the all-absorbing winter sports. We made
our tops heartshaped of wood, horn or bone. We whipped them with a long
thong of buckskin. The handle was a stick about a foot long and sometimes
we whittled the stick to make it spoon-shaped at one end.
We played games with these tops—two to fifty boys at one time. Each
whips his top until it hums; then one takes the lead and the rest follow in a
sort of obstacle race. The top must spin all the way through. There were
bars of snow over which we must pilot our top in the spoon end of our
whip; then again we would toss it in the air on to another open spot of ice or
smooth snowcrust from twenty to fifty paces away. The top that holds out
the longest is the winner.
Sometimes we played “medicine dance.” This, to us, was almost what
“playing church” is among white children, but our people seemed to think it
an act of irreverence to imitate these dances, therefore performances of this
kind were always enjoyed in secret. We used to observe all the important
ceremonies and it required something of an actor to reproduce the dramatic
features of the dance. The real dances occupied a day and a night, and the
program was long and varied, so that it was not easy to execute all the
details perfectly; but the Indian children are born imitators.
The boys built an arbor of pine boughs in some out-of-the-way place and
at one end of it was a rude lodge. This was the medicine lodge or
headquarters. All the initiates were there. At the further end or entrance
were the door-keepers or soldiers, as we called them. The members of each
lodge entered in a body, standing in single file and facing the headquarters.
Each stretched out his right hand and a prayer was offered by the leader,
after which they took the places assigned to them.

When the preliminaries had been completed, our leader sounded the big
drum and we all said “A-ho-ho-ho!” as a sort of amen. Then the choir began
their song and whenever they ended a verse, we all said again “A-ho-ho-
ho!” At last they struck up the chorus and we all got upon our feet and
began to dance, by simply lifting up one foot and then the other, with a
slight swing to the body.
Each boy was representing or imitating some one of the medicine men.
We painted and decorated ourselves just as they did and carried bird or
squirrel skins, or occasionally live birds and chipmunks as our medicine
bags and small white shells or pebbles for medicine charms.
Then the persons to be initiated were brought in and seated, with much
ceremony, upon a blanket or buffalo robe. Directly in front of them the
ground was levelled smooth and here we laid an old pipe filled with dried
leaves for tobacco. Around it we placed the variously colored feathers of the
birds we had killed, and cedar and sweetgrass we burned for incense.
Finally those of us who had been selected to perform this ceremony
stretched out our arms at full length, holding the sacred medicine bags and
aiming them at the new members. After swinging them four times, we shot
them suddenly forward, but did not let go. The novices then fell forward on
their faces as if dead. Quickly a chorus was struck up and we all joined in a
lively dance around the supposed bodies. The girls covered them up with
their blankets, thus burying the dead. At last we resurrected them with our
charms and led them to their places among the audience. Then came the last
general dance and the final feast.
I was often selected as choir-master on these occasions, for I had
happened to learn many of the medicine songs and was quite an apt mimic.
My grandmother, who was a noted medicine woman of the Turtle lodge, on
hearing of these sacrilegious acts (as she called them) warned me that if any
of the medicine men should discover them, they would punish me terribly
by shriveling my limbs with slow disease.
Occasionally, we also played “white man.” Our knowledge of the pale-
face was limited, but we had learned that he brought goods whenever he
came and that our people exchanged furs for his merchandise. We also
knew that his complexion was pale, that he had short hair on his head and
long hair on his face and that he wore coat, trousers, and hat, and did not

patronize blankets in the daytime. This was the picture we had formed of
the white man.
So we painted two or three of our number with white clay and put on
them birchen hats which we sewed up for the occasion; fastened a piece of
fur to their chins for a beard and altered their costumes as much as lay
within our power. The white of the birch-bark was made to answer for their
white shirts. Their merchandise consisted of sand for sugar, wild beans for
coffee, dried leaves for tea, pulverized earth for gun-powder, pebbles for
bullets and clear water for the dangerous “spirit water.” We traded for these
goods with skins of squirrels, rabbits and small birds.
When we played “hunting buffalo” we would send a few good runners
off on the open prairie with a supply of meat; then start a few equally swift
boys to chase them and capture the food. Once we were engaged in this
sport when a real hunt by the men was in progress; yet we did not realize
that it was so near until, in the midst of our play, we saw an immense
buffalo coming at full speed directly toward us. Our mimic buffalo hunt
turned into a very real buffalo scare. Fortunately, we were near the edge of
the woods and we soon disappeared among the leaves like a covey of young
prairie-chickens and some hid in the bushes while others took refuge in tall
trees.
We loved to play in the water. When we had no ponies, we often had
swimming matches of our own and sometimes made rafts with which we
crossed lakes and rivers. It was a common thing to “duck” a young or timid
boy or to carry him into deep water to struggle as best he might.
I remember a perilous ride with a companion on an unmanageable log,
when we were both less than seven years old. The older boys had put us on
this uncertain bark and pushed us out into the swift current of the river. I
cannot speak for my comrade in distress, but I can say now that I would
rather ride on a swift bronco any day than try to stay on and steady a short
log in a river. I never knew how we managed to prevent a shipwreck on that
voyage and to reach the shore.
We had many curious wild pets. There were young foxes, bears, wolves,
raccoons, fawns, buffalo calves and birds of all kinds, tamed by various
boys. My pets were different at different times, but I particularly remember
one. I once had a grizzly bear for a pet and so far as he and I were
concerned, our relations were charming and very close. But I hardly know

whether he made more enemies for me or I for him. It was his habit to treat
every boy unmercifully who injured me. He was despised for his conduct in
my interest and I was hated on account of his interference.

II. My Playmates
CHATANNA was the brother with whom I passed much of my early
childhood. From the time that I was old enough to play with boys, this
brother was my close companion. He was a handsome boy, and an
affectionate comrade. We played together, slept together and ate together;
and as Chatanna was three years the older, I naturally looked up to him as to
a superior.
Oesedah was a beautiful little character. She was my cousin, and four
years younger than myself. Perhaps none of my early playmates are more
vividly remembered than is this little maiden.
The name given her by a noted medicine-man was Makah-oesetopah-
win. It means The-four-corners-of-the-earth. As she was rather small, the
abbreviation with a diminutive termination was considered more
appropriate, hence Oesedah became her common name.
Although she had a very good mother, Uncheedah was her efficient
teacher and chaperon Such knowledge as my grandmother deemed suitable
to a maiden was duly impressed upon her susceptible mind. When I was not
in the woods with Chatanna, Oesedah was my companion at home; and
when I returned from my play at evening, she would have a hundred
questions ready for me to answer. Some of these were questions concerning
our every-day life, and others were more difficult problems which had
suddenly dawned upon her active little mind. Whatever had occurred to
interest her during the day was immediately repeated for my benefit.
There were certain questions upon which Oesedah held me to be
authority, and asked with the hope of increasing her little store of
knowledge. I have often heard her declare to her girl companions: “I know
it is true; Ohiyesa said so!” Uncheedah was partly responsible for this, for
when any questions came up which lay within the sphere of man’s
observation, she would say:
“Ohiyesa ought to know that: he is a man-I am not! You had better ask
him.”

The truth was that she had herself explained to me many of the subjects
under discussion.
I was occasionally referred to little Oesedah in the same manner, and I
always accepted her childish elucidations of any matter upon which I had
been advised to consult her, because I knew the source of her wisdom. In
this simple way we were made to be teachers of one another.
Very often we discussed some topic before our common instructor, or
answered her questions together, in order to show which had the readier
mind.
“To what tribe does the lizard belong?” inquired Uncheedah, upon one of
these occasions.
“To the four-legged tribe,” I shouted.
Oesedah, with her usual quickness, flashed out the answer:
“It belongs to the creeping tribe.”
The Indians divided all animals into four general classes: 1st, those that
walk upon four legs; 2nd, those that fly; 3rd, those that swim with fins; 4th,
those that creep.
Of course I endeavored to support my assertion that the lizard belongs
where I had placed it, be-. cause he has four distinct legs which propel him
everywhere, on the ground or in the water. But my opponent claimed that
the creature under dispute does not walk, but creeps. My strongest argument
was that it had legs; but Oesedah insisted that its body touches the ground
as it moves. As a last resort, I volunteered to go find one, and demonstrate
the point in question.
The lizard having been brought, we smoothed off the ground and strewed
ashes on it so that we could see the track. Then I raised the question: “What
constitutes creeping, and what constitutes walking?”
Uncheedah was the judge, and she stated, without any hesitation, that an
animal must stand clear of the ground on the support of its legs, and walk
with the body above the legs, and not in contact with the ground, in order to
be termed a walker; while a creeper is one that, regardless of its legs, if it
has them, drags its body upon the ground. Upon hearing the judge’s
decision, I yielded at once to my opponent.
At another time, when I was engaged in a similar discussion with my
brother Chatanna, Oesedah came to my rescue. Our grandmother had asked

us:
“What bird shows most judgment in caring for its young?”
Chatanna at once exclaimed:
“The eagle!” but I held my peace for a moment, because I was confused
—so many birds came into my mind at once. I finally declared:
“It is the oriole!”
Chatanna was asked to state all the evidence that he had in support of the
eagle’s good sense in rearing its young. He proceeded with an air of
confidence:
“The eagle is the wisest of all birds. Its nest is made in the safest possible
place, upon a high and inaccessible cliff. It provides its young with an
abundance of fresh meat. They have the freshest of air. They are brought up
under the spell of the grandest scenes, and inspired with lofty feelings and
bravery. They see that all other beings live beneath them, and that they are
the children of the King of Birds. A young eagle shows the spirit of a
warrior while still in the nest.
“Being exposed to the inclemency of the weather the young eaglets are
hardy. They are accustomed to hear the mutterings of the Thunder Bird and
the sighings of the Great Mystery. Why, the little eagles cannot help being
as noble as they are, because their parents selected for them so lofty and
inspiring a home! How happy they must be when they find themselves
above the clouds, and behold the zigzag flashes of lightning all about them!
It must be nice to taste a piece of fresh meat up in their cool home, in the
burning summer-time! Then when they drop down the bones of the game
they feed upon, wolves and vultures gather beneath them, feeding upon
their refuse. That alone would show them their chieftainship over all the
other birds. Isn’t that so, grandmother?” Thus triumphantly he concluded
his argument.
I was staggered at first by the noble speech of Chatannna, but I soon
recovered from its effects. The little Oesedah came to my aid by saying:
“Wait until Ohiyesa tells of the loveliness of the beautiful Oriole’s home!”
This timely remark gave me courage and I began:
“My grandmother, who was it said that a mother who has a gentle and
sweet voice will have children of a good disposition? I think the oriole is
that kind of a parent. It provides both sunshine and shadow for its young. Its

nest is suspended from the prettiest bough of the most graceful tree, where
it is rocked by the gentle winds; and the one we found yesterday was
beautifully lined with soft things, both deep and warm, so that the little
featherless birdies cannot suffer from the cold and wet.”
Here Chatanna interrupted me to exclaim: “That is just like the white
people—who cares for them? The eagle teaches its young to be accustomed
to hardships, like young warriors!”
Ohiyesa was provoked; he reproached his brother and appealed to the
judge, saying that he had not finished yet.
“But you would not have lived, Chatanna, if you had been exposed like
that when you were a baby! The oriole shows wisdom in providing for its
children a good, comfortable home! A home upon a high rock would not be
pleasant-it would be cold! We climbed a mountain once, and it was cold
there; and who would care to stay in such a place when it storms? What
wisdom is there in having a pile of rough sticks upon a bare rock,
surrounded with ill-smelling bones of animals, for a home? Also, my uncle
says that the eaglets seem always to be on the point of starvation. You have
heard that whoever lives on game killed by some one else is compared to an
eagle. Isn’t that so, grandmother?
“The oriole suspends its nest from the lower side of a horizontal bough so
that no enemy can approach it. It enjoys peace and beauty and safety.”
Oesedah was at Ohiyesa’s side during the discussion, and occasionally
whispered into his ear. Uncheedah decided this time in favor of Ohiyesa.
We were once very short of provisions in the winter time. My uncle, our
only means of support, was sick; and besides, we were separated from the
rest of the tribe and in a region where there was little game of any kind.
Oesedah had a pet squirrel, and as soon as we began to economize our food
had given portions of her allowance to her pet.
At last we were reduced very much, and the prospect of obtaining
anything soon being gloomy, my grandmother reluctantly suggested that the
squirrel should be killed for food. Thereupon my little cousin cried, and
said:
“Why cannot we all die alike wanting? The squirrel’s life is as dear to
him as ours to us,” and clung to it. Fortunately, relief came in time to save
her pet.

Oesedah lived with us for a portion of the year, and as there were no
other girls in the family she played much alone, and had many imaginary
companions. At one time there was a small willow tree which she visited
regularly, holding long conversations, a part of which she would afterward
repeat to me. She said the willow tree was her husband, whom some magic
had compelled to take that form; but no grown person was ever allowed to
share her secret.
When I was about eight years old I had for a playmate the adopted son of
a Sioux, who was a white captive. This boy was quite a noted personage,
although he was then only about ten or eleven years of age. When I first
became acquainted with him we were on the upper Missouri river. I learned
from him that he had been taken on the plains, and that both of his parents
were killed.
He was at first sad and lonely, but soon found plenty of consolation in his
new home. The name of his adopted father was “Keeps-the-Spotted-
Ponies.” He was known to have an unusual number of the pretty calico
ponies; indeed, he had a passion for accumulating property in the shape of
ponies, painted tents, decorated saddles and all sorts of finery. He had lost
his only son; but the little pale-face became the adopted brother of two
handsome young women, his daughters. This made him quite popular
among the young warriors. He was not slow to adopt the Indian customs,
and he acquired the Sioux language in a short time.
I well remember hearing of his first experience of war. He was not more
than sixteen when he joined a war-party against the Gros-Ventres and
Mandans. My uncle reported that he was very brave until he was wounded
in the ankle; then he begged with tears to be taken back to a safe place.
Fortunately for him, his adopted father came to the rescue, and saved him at
the risk of his own life. He was called the “pale-face Indian.” His hair grew
very long and he lavished paint on his face and hair so that no one might
suspect that he was a white man.
One day this boy was playing a gambling game with one of the Sioux
warriors. He was an expert gambler, and won everything from the Indian.
At a certain point a dispute arose. The Indian was very angry, for he
discovered that his fellow-player had deliberately cheated him. The Indians
were strictly honest in those days, even in their gambling.

The boy declared that he had merely performed a trick for the benefit of
his friend, but it nearly cost him his life. The indignant warrior had already
drawn his bow-string with the intention of shooting the captive, but a third
person intervened and saved the boy’s life. He at once explained his trick;
and in order to show himself an honorable gambler, gave back all the
articles that he had won from his opponent. In the midst of the confusion,
old “Keeps-the-Spotted-Ponies” came rushing through the crowd in a state
of great excitement. He thought his pale-face son had been killed. When he
saw how matters stood, he gave the aggrieved warrior a pony, “in order,” as
he said, “that there may be no shadow between him and my son.”
One spring my uncle took Chatanna to the Canadian trading-post on the
Assiniboine river, where he went to trade off his furs for ammunition and
other commodities. When he came back, my brother was not with him!
At first my fears were even worse than the reality. The facts were these:
A Canadian with whom my uncle had traded much had six daughters and no
son; and when he saw this handsome and intelligent little fellow, he at once
offered to adopt him.
“I have no boy in my family,” said he, “and I will deal with him as with a
son. I am always in these regions trading; so you can see him two or three
times in a year.”
He further assured my uncle that the possession of the boy would greatly
strengthen their friendship. The matter was finally agreed upon. At first
Chatanna was unwilling, but as we were taught to follow the advice of our
parents and guardians, he was obliged to yield.
This was a severe blow to me, and for a long time I could not be
consoled. Uncheedah was fully in sympathy with my distress. She argued
that the white man’s education was not desirable for her boys; in fact, she
urged her son so strongly to go back after Chatanna that he promised on his
next visit to the post to bring him home again.
But the trader was a shrewd man. He immediately moved to another part
of the country; and I never saw my Chatanna, the companion of my
childhood, again! We learned afterward that he grew up and was married;
but one day he lost his way in a blizzard and was frozen to death.
My little cousin and I went to school together in later years; but she could
not endure the confinement of the school-room. Although apparently very

happy, she suffered greatly from the change to an indoor life, as have many
of our people, and died six months after our return to the United States.

III: The Boy Hunter
IT will be no exaggeration to say that the life of the Indian hunter was a
life of fascination. From the moment that he lost sight of his rude home in
the midst of the forest, his untutored mind lost itself in the myriad beauties
and forces of nature. Yet he never forgot his personal danger from some
lurking foe or savage beast, however absorbing was his passion for the
chase.
The Indian youth was a born hunter. Every motion, every step expressed
an inborn dignity and, at the same time, a depth of native caution. His
moccasined foot fell like the velvet paw of a cat—noiselessly; his glittering
black eyes scanned every object that appeared within their view. Not a bird,
not even a chipmunk, escaped their piercing glance.
I was scarcely over three years old when I stood one morning just outside
our buffalo-skin teepee, with my little bow and arrows in my hand, and
gazed up among the trees. Suddenly the instinct to chase and kill seized me
powerfully. Just then a bird flew over my head and then another caught my
eye, as it balanced itself upon a swaying bough. Everything else was
forgotten and in that moment I had taken my first step as a hunter.
There was almost as much difference between the Indian boys who were
brought up on the open prairies and those of the woods, as between city and
country boys. The hunting of the prairie boys was limited and their
knowledge of natural history imperfect. They were, as a rule, good riders,
but in all-round physical development much inferior to the red men of the
forest.
Our hunting varied with the season of the year, and the nature of the
country which was for the time our home. Our chief weapon was the bow
and arrows, and perhaps, if we were lucky, a knife was possessed by some
one in the crowd. In the olden times, knives and hatchets were made from
bone and sharp stones.
For fire we used a flint with a spongy piece of dry wood and a stone to
strike with. Another way of starting fire was for several of the boys to sit

down in a circle and rub two pieces of dry, spongy wood together, one after
another, until the wood took fire.
We hunted in company a great deal, though it was a common thing for a
boy to set out for the woods quite alone, and he usually enjoyed himself
fully as much. Our game consisted mainly of small birds, rabbits, squirrels
and grouse. Fishing, too, occupied much of our time. We hardly ever passed
a creek or a pond without searching for some signs of fish. When fish were
present, we always managed to get some. Fish-lines were made of wild
hemp, sinew or horse-hair. We either caught fish with lines, snared or
speared them, or shot them with bow and arrows. In the fall we charmed
them up to the surface by gently tickling them with a stick and quickly
threw them out. We have sometimes dammed the brooks and driven the
larger fish into a willow basket made for that purpose.
It was part of our hunting to find new and strange things in the woods.
We examined the slightest sign of life; and if a bird had scratched the leaves
off the ground, or a bear dragged up a root for his morning meal, we
stopped to speculate on the time it was done. If we saw a large old tree with
some scratches on its bark, we concluded that a bear or some raccoons must
be living there. In that case we did not go any nearer than was necessary,
but later reported the incident at home. An old deer-track would at once
bring on a warm discussion as to whether it was the track of a buck or a
doe. Generally, at noon, we met and compared our game, noting at the same
time the peculiar characteristics of everything we had killed. It was not
merely a hunt, for we combined with it the study of animal life. We also
kept strict account of our game, and thus learned who were the best shots
among the boys.
I am sorry to say that we were merciless toward the birds. We often took
their eggs and their young ones. My brother Chatanna and I once had a
disagreeable adventure while bird-hunting. We were accustomed to catch in
our hands young ducks and geese during the summer, and while doing this
we happened to find a crane’s nest. Of course, we were delighted with our
good luck. But, as it was already midsummer, the young cranes—two in
number—were rather large and they were a little way from the nest; we also
observed that the two old cranes were in a swampy place near by; but, as it
was moulting-time, we did not suppose that they would venture on dry land.

So we proceeded to chase the young birds; but they were fleet runners and
it took us some time to come up with them.
Meanwhile, the parent birds had heard the cries of their little ones and
come to their rescue. They were chasing us, while we followed the birds. It
was really a perilous encounter! Our strong bows finally gained the victory
in a hand-to-hand struggle with the angry cranes; but after that we hardly
ever hunted a crane’s nest. Almost all birds make some resistance when
their eggs or young are taken, but they will seldom attack man fearlessly.
We used to climb large trees for birds of all kinds; but we never
undertook to get young owls unless they were on the ground. The hooting
owl especially is a dangerous bird to attack under these circumstances. I
was once trying to catch a yellow-winged woodpecker in its nest when my
arm became twisted and lodged in the deep hole so that I could not get it
out without the aid of a knife; but we were a long way from home and my
only companion was a deaf mute cousin of mine. I was about fifty feet up in
the tree, in a very uncomfortable position, but I had to wait there for more
than an hour before he brought me the knife with which I finally released
myself.
Our devices for trapping small animals were rude, but they were often
successful. For instance, we used to gather up a peck or so of large, sharp-
pointed burrs and scatter them in the rabbit’s furrow-like path. In the
morning, we would find the little fellow sitting quietly in his tracks, unable
to move, for the burrs stuck to his feet.
Another way of snaring rabbits and grouse was the following: We made
nooses of twisted horsehair, which we tied very firmly to the top of a limber
young tree, then bent the latter down to the track and fastened the whole
with a slip-knot, after adjusting the noose. When the rabbit runs his head
through the noose, he pulls the slip-knot and is quickly carried up by the
spring of the young tree. This is a good plan, for the rabbit is out of harm’s
way as he swings high in the air.
Perhaps the most enjoyable of all was the chipmunk hunt. We killed these
animals at any time of year, but the special time to hunt them was in March.
After the first thaw, the chipmunks burrow a hole through the snow crust
and make their first appearance for the season. Sometimes as many as fifty
will come together and hold a social reunion. These gatherings occur early
in the morning, from daybreak to about nine o’clock.

We boys learned this, among other secrets of nature, and got our blunt-
headed arrows together in good season for the chipmunk expedition.
We generally went in groups of six to a dozen or fifteen, to see which
would get the most. On the evening before, we selected several boys who
could imitate the chipmunk’s call with wild oatstraws and each of these
provided himself with a supply of straws.
The crust will hold the boys nicely at this time of the year. Bright and
early, they all come together at the appointed place, from which each group
starts out in a different direction, agreeing to meet somewhere at a given
position of the sun.
My first experience of this kind is still well remembered. It was a fine
crisp March morning, and the sun had not yet shown himself among the
distant tree-tops as we hurried along through the ghostly wood. Presently
we arrived at a place where there were many signs of the animals. Then
each of us selected a tree and took up his position behind it. The chipmunk
caller sat upon a log as motionless as he could, and began to call.
Soon we heard the patter of little feet on the hard snow; then we saw the
chipmunks approaching from all directions. Some stopped and ran
experimentally up a tree or a log, as if uncertain of the exact direction of the
call; others chased one another about.
In a few minutes, the chipmunk-caller was besieged with them. Some ran
all over his person, others under him and still others ran up the tree against
which he was sitting. Each boy remained immovable until their leader gave
the signal; then a great shout arose, and the chipmunks in their flight all ran
up the different trees.
Now the shooting-match began. The little creatures seemed to realize
their hopeless position; they would try again and again to come down the
trees and flee away from the deadly aim of the youthful hunters. But they
were shot down very fast; and whenever several of them rushed toward the
ground, the little red-skin hugged the tree and yelled frantically to scare
them up again.
Each boy shoots always against the trunk of the tree, so that the arrow
may bound back to him every time; otherwise, when he had shot away all of
them, he would be helpless, and another, who had cleared his own tree,
would come and take away his game, so there was warm competition.
Sometimes a desperate chipmunk would jump from the top of the tree in

order to escape, which was considered a joke on the boy who lost it and a
triumph for the brave little animal. At last all were killed or gone, and then
we went on to another place, keeping up the sport until the sun came out
and the chipmunks refused to answer the call.
When we went out on the prairies we had a different and less lively kind
of sport. We used to snare with horse-hair and bow-strings all the small
ground animals, including the prairie-dog. We both snared and shot them.
Once a little boy set a snare for one, and lay flat on the ground a little way
from the hole, holding the end of the string. Presently he felt something
move and pulled in a huge rattlesnake; and to this day, his name is “Caught-
the-Rattlesnake.” Very often a boy got a new name in some such manner. At
another time, we were playing in the woods and found a fawn’s track. We
followed and caught it while asleep; but in the struggle to get away, it
kicked one boy, who is still called “Kicked-by-the-Fawn.”
It became a necessary part of our education to learn to prepare a meal
while out hunting. It is a fact that most Indians will eat the liver and some
other portions of large animals raw, but they do not eat fish or birds
uncooked. Neither will they eat a frog, or an eel. On our boyish hunts, we
often went on until we found ourselves a long way from our camp, when we
would kindle a fire and roast a part of our game.
Generally we broiled our meat over the coals on a stick. We roasted some
of it over the open fire. But the best way to cook fish and birds is in the
ashes, under a big fire. We take the fish fresh from the creek or lake, have a
good fire on the sand, dig in the sandy ashes and bury it deep. The same
thing is done in case of a bird, only we wet the feathers first. When it is
done, the scales or feathers and skin are stripped off whole, and the
delicious meat retains all its juices and flavor. We pulled it off as we ate,
leaving the bones undisturbed.
Our people had also a method of boiling without pots or kettles. A large
piece of tripe was thoroughly washed and the ends tied, then suspended
between four stakes driven into the ground and filled with cold water. The
meat was then placed in this novel receptacle and boiled by means of the
addition of red-hot stones.
Chatanna was a good hunter. He called the doe and fawn beautifully by
using a thin leaf of birchbark between two flattened sticks. One morning we

found the tracks of a doe and fawn who had passed within the hour, for the
light dew was brushed from the grass.
“What shall we do?” I asked. “Shall we go back to the teepee and tell
uncle to bring his gun?”
“No, no!” exclaimed Chatanna. “Did not our people kill deer and buffalo
long ago without guns? We will entice her into this open space, and, while
she stands bewildered, I can throw my lasso line over her head.”
He had called only a few seconds when the fawn emerged from the thick
woods and stood before us, prettier than a picture. Then I uttered the call,
and she threw her tobacco-leaf-like ears toward me, while Chatanna threw
his lasso. She gave one scream and launched forth into the air, almost
throwing the boy hunter to the ground. Again and again she flung herself
desperately into the air, but at last we led her to the nearest tree and tied her
securely.
“Now,” said he, “go and get our pets and see what they will do.”
At that time he had a good-sized black bear partly tamed, while I had a
young red fox and my faithful Ohitika or Brave. I untied Chagoo, the bear,
and Wanahon, the fox, while Ohitika got up and welcomed me by wagging
his tail in a dignified way.
“Come,” I said, “all three of you. I think we have something you would
all like to see.”
They seemed to understand me, for Chagoo began to pull his rope with
both paws, while Wanahon undertook the task of digging up by the roots the
sapling to which I had tied him.
Before we got to the open spot, we already heard Ohitika’s joyous bark,
and the two wild pets began to run, and pulled me along through the
underbrush. Chagoo soon assumed the utmost precaution and walked as if
he had splinters in his soles, while Wanahon kept his nose down low and
sneaked through the trees.
Out into the open glade we came, and there, before the three rogues,
stood the little innocent fawn. She visibly trembled at the sight of the
motley group. The two human rogues looked to her, I presume, just as bad
as the other three. Chagoo regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and
defiance, while Wanahon stood as if rooted to the ground, evidently
planning how to get at her. But Ohitika (Brave), generous Ohitika, his

occasional barking was only in jest. He did not care to touch the helpless
thing.
Suddenly the fawn sprang high into the air and then dropped her pretty
head on the ground.
“Ohiyesa, the fawn is dead,” cried Chatanna. “I wanted to keep her.”
“It is a shame;” I chimed in.
We five guilty ones came and stood around her helpless form. We all
looked very sorry; even Chagoo’s eyes showed repentance and regret. As
for Ohitika, he gave two great sighs and then betook himself to a respectful
distance. Chatanna had two big tears gradually swamping his long, black
eye-lashes; and I thought it was time to hide my face, for I did not want him
to look at me.

IV. Hakadah’s First Offering
“HAKADAH, coowah!” was the sonorous call that came from a large
teepee in the midst of the Indian encampment. In answer to the summons
there emerged from the woods, which were only a few steps away, a boy,
accompanied by a splendid black dog. There was little in the appearance of
the little fellow to distinguish him from the other Sioux boys.
He hastened to the tent from which he had been summoned, carrying in
his hands a bow and arrows gorgeously painted, while the small birds and
squirrels that he had killed with these weapons dangled from his belt.
Within the tent sat two old women, one on each side of the fire.
Uncheedah was the boy’s grandmother, who had brought up the motherless
child. Wahchewin was only a caller, but she had been invited to remain and
assist in the first personal offering of Hakadah to the “Great Mystery.”
This was a matter which had, for several days, pretty much monopolized
Uncheedah’s mind. It was her custom to see to this when each of her
children attained the age of eight summers. They had all been celebrated as
warriors and hunters among their tribe, and she had not hesitated to claim
for herself a good share of the honors they had achieved, because she had
brought them early to the notice of the “Great Mystery.”
She believed that her influence had helped to regulate and develop the
characters of her sons to the height of savage nobility and strength of
manhood.
It had been whispered through the teepee village that Uncheedah
intended to give a feast in honor of her grandchild’s first sacrificial offering.
This was mere speculation, however, for the clearsighted old woman had
determined to keep this part of the matter secret until the offering should be
completed, believing that the “Great Mystery” should be met in silence and
dignity.
The boy came rushing into the lodge, followed by his dog Ohitika who
was wagging his tail promiscuously, as if to say: “Master and I are really
hunters!”

Hakadah breathlessly gave a descriptive narrative of the killing of each
bird and squirrel as he pulled them off his belt and threw them before his
grandmother.
“This blunt-headed arrow,” said he, “actually had eyes this morning.
Before the squirrel can dodge around the tree it strikes him in the head, and,
as he falls to the ground, my Ohitika is upon him.”
He knelt upon one knee as he talked, his black eyes shining like evening
stars.
“Sit down here,” said Uncheedah to the boy; “I have something to say to
you. You see that you are now almost a man. Observe the game you have
brought me! It will not be long before you will leave me, for a warrior must
seek opportunities to make him great among his people.
“You must endeavor to equal your father and grandfather,” she went on.
“They were warriors and feast-makers. But it is not the poor hunter who
makes many feasts. Do you not remember the ‘Legend of the Feast-Maker,’
who gave forty feasts in twelve moons? And have you forgotten the story of
the warrior who sought the will of the Great Mystery? To-day you will
make your first offering to him.”
The concluding sentence fairly dilated the eyes of the young hunter, for
he felt that a great event was about to occur, in which he would be the
principal actor. But Uncheedah resumed her speech.
“You must give up one of your belongings-whichever is dearest to you—
for this is to be a sacrificial offering.”
This somewhat confused the boy; not that he was selfish, but rather
uncertain as to what would be the most appropriate thing to give. Then, too,
he supposed that his grandmother referred to his ornaments and playthings
only. So he volunteered:
“I can give up my best bow and arrows, and all the paints I have, and—
and my bear’s claws necklace, grandmother!”
“Are these the things dearest to you?” she demanded.
“Not the bow and arrows, but the paints will be very hard to get, for there
are no white people near; and the necklace—it is not easy to get one like it
again. I will also give up my otterskin head-dress, if you think that is not
enough.”

“But think, my boy, you have not yet mentioned the thing that will be a
pleasant offering to the Great Mystery.”
The boy looked into the woman’s face with a puzzled expression.
“I have nothing else as good as those things I have named, grandmother,
unless it is my spotted pony; and I am sure that the Great Mystery will not
require a little boy to make him so large a gift. Besides, my uncle gave three
otter-skins and five eagle-feathers for him and I promised to keep him a
long while, if the Blackfeet or the Crows do not steal him.”
Uncheedah was not fully satisfied with the boy’s free offerings. Perhaps
it had not occurred to him what she really wanted. But Uncheedah knew
where his affection was vested. His faithful dog, his pet and companion—
Hakadah was almost inseparable from the loving beast.
She was sure that it would be difficult to obtain his consent to sacrifice
the animal, but she ventured upon a final appeal.
“You must remember,” she said, “that in this offering you will call upon
him who looks at you from every creation. In the wind you hear him
whisper to you. He gives his war-whoop in the thunder. He watches you by
day with his eye, the sun; at night, he gazes upon your sleeping countenance
through the moon. In short, it is the Mystery of Mysteries, who controls all
things to whom you will make your first offering. By this act, you will ask
him to grant to you what he has granted to few men. I know you wish to be
a great warrior and hunter. I am not prepared to see my Hakadah show any
cowardice, for the love of possessions is a woman’s trait and not a brave’s.”
During this speech, the boy had been completely aroused to the spirit of
manliness, and in his excitement was willing to give up anything he had—
even his pony! But he was unmindful of his friend and companion, Ohitika,
the dog! So, scarcely had Uncheedah finished speaking, when he almost
shouted:
“Grandmother, I will give up any of my possessions for the offering to
the Great Mystery! You may select what you think will be most pleasing to
him.”
There were two silent spectators of this little dialogue. One was
Wahchewin; the other was Ohitika. The woman had been invited to stay,
although only a neighbor. The dog, by force of habit, had taken up his usual
position by the side of his master when they entered the teepee. Without

moving a muscle, save those of his eyes, he had been a very close observer
of what passed.
Had the dog but moved once to attract the attention of his little friend, he
might have been dissuaded from that impetuous exclamation:
“Grandmother, I will give up any of my possessions!”
It was hard for Uncheedah to tell the boy that he must part with his dog,
but she was equal to the situation.
“Hakadah,” she proceeded cautiously, “you are a young brave. I know,
though young, your heart is strong and your courage is great. You will be
pleased to give up the dearest thing you have for your first offering. You
must give up Ohitika. He is brave; and you, too, are brave. He will not fear
death; you will bear his loss bravely. Come—here are four bundles of paints
and a filled pipe—let us go to the place.”
When the last words were uttered, Hakadah did not seem to hear them.
He was simply unable to speak. To a civilized eye, he would have appeared
at that moment like a little copper statue. His bright black eyes were fast
melting in floods of tears, when he caught his grandmother’s eye and
recollected her oft-repeated adage: “Tears for woman and the war-whoop
for man to drown sorrow!”
He swallowed two or three big mouthfuls of heart-ache and the little
warrior was master of the situation.
“Grandmother, my Brave will have to die! Let me tie together two of the
prettiest tails of the squirrels that he and I killed this morning, to show to
the Great Mystery what a hunter he has been. Let me paint him myself.”
This request Uncheedah could not refuse and she left the pair alone for a
few minutes, while she went to ask Wacoota to execute Ohitika.
Every Indian boy knows that, when a warrior is about to meet death, he
must sing a death dirge. Hakadah thought of his Ohitika as a person who
would meet his death without a struggle, so he began to sing a dirge for
him, at the same time hugging him tight to himself. As if he were a human
being, he whispered in his ear:
“Be brave, my Ohitika! I shall remember you the first time I am upon the
war-path in the Ojibway country.”
At last he heard Uncheedah talking with a man outside the teepee, so he
quickly took up his paints. Ohitika was a jet-black dog, with a silver tip on

the end of his tail and on his nose, beside one white paw and a white star
upon a protuberance between his ears. Hakadah knew that a man who
prepares for death usually paints with red and black. Nature had partially
provided Ohitika in this respect, so that only red was required and this
Hakadah supplied generously.
Then he took off a piece of red cloth and tied it around the dog’s neck; to
this he fastened two of the squirrels’ tails and a wing from the oriole they
had killed that morning.
Just then it occurred to him that good warriors always mourn for their
departed friends and the usual mourning was black paint. He loosened his
black braided locks, ground a dead coal, mixed it with bear’s oil and rubbed
it on his entire face.
During this time every hole in the tent was occupied with an eye. Among
the lookers-on was his grandmother. She was very near relenting. Had she
not feared the wrath of the Great Mystery, she would have been happy to
call out to the boy: “Keep your dear dog, my child!”
As it was, Hakadah came out of the teepee with his face looking like an
eclipsed moon, leading his beautiful dog, who was even handsomer than
ever with the red touches on his specks of white.
It was now Uncheedah’s turn to struggle with the storm and burden in her
soul. But the boy was emboldened by the people’s admiration of his
bravery, and did not shed a tear. As soon as she was able to speak, the
loving grandmother said:
“No, my young brave, not so! You must not mourn for your first offering.
Wash your face and then we will go.”
The boy obeyed, submitted Ohitika to Wacoota with a smile, and walked
off with his grandmother and Wahchewin.
They followed a well-beaten foot-path leading along the bank of the
Assiniboine river, through a beautiful grove of oak, and finally around and
under a very high cliff. The murmuring of the river came up from just
below. On the opposite side was a perpendicular white cliff, from which
extended back a gradual slope of land, clothed with the majestic mountain
oak. The scene was impressive and wild.
Wahchewin had paused without a word when the little party reached the
edge of the cliff. It had been arranged between her and Uncheedah that she

should wait there for Wacoota, who was to bring as far as that the portion of
the offering with which he had been entrusted.
The boy and his grandmother descended the bank, following a tortuous
foot-path until they reached the water’s edge. Then they proceeded to the
mouth of an immense cave, some fifty feet above the river, under the cliff.
A little stream of limpid water trickled down from a spring within the cave.
The little watercourse served as a sort of natural staircase for the visitors. A
cool, pleasant atmosphere exhaled from the mouth of the cavern. Really it
was a shrine of nature and it is not strange that it was so regarded by the
tribe.
A feeling of awe and reverence came to the boy. “It is the home of the
Great Mystery,” he thought to himself; and the impressiveness of his
surroundings made him forget his sorrow.
Very soon Wahchewin came with some difficulty to the steps. She placed
the body of Ohitika upon the ground in a life-like position and again left the
two alone.
As soon as she disappeared from view, Uncheedah, with all solemnity
and reverence, unfastened the leather strings that held the four small
bundles of paints and one of tobacco, while the filled pipe was laid beside
the dead Ohitika.
She scattered paints and tobacco all about. Again they stood a few
moments silently; then she drew a deep breath and began her prayer to the
Great Mystery:
“O, Great Mystery, we hear thy voice in the rushing waters below us! We
hear thy whisper in the great oaks above! Our spirits are refreshed with thy
breath from within this cave. O, hear our prayer! Behold this little boy and
bless him! Make him a warrior and a hunter as great as thou didst make his
father and grandfather.”
And with this prayer the little warrior had completed his first offering.

V. FAMILY TRADITIONS

I: A Visit to Smoky Day
SMOKY DAY was widely known among us as a preserver of history and
legend. He was a living book of the traditions and history of his people.
Among his effects were bundles of small sticks, notched and painted. One
bundle contained the number of his own years. Another was composed of
sticks representing the important events of history, each of which was
marked with the number of years since that particular event occurred. For
instance, there was the year when so many stars fell from the sky, with the
number of years since it happened cut into the wood. Another recorded the
appearance of a comet; and from these heavenly wonders the great national
catastrophes and victories were reckoned.
But I will try to repeat some of his favorite narratives as I heard them
from his own lips. I went to him one day with a piece of tobacco and an
eagle-feather; not to buy his MSS., but hoping for the privilege of hearing
him tell of some of the brave deeds of our people in remote times.
The tall and large old man greeted me with his usual courtesy and
thanked me for my present. As I recall the meeting, I well remember his
unusual stature, his slow speech and gracious manner.
“Ah, Ohiyesa!” said he, “my young warrior—for such you will be some
day! I know this by your seeking to hear of the great deeds of your
ancestors. That is a good sign, and I love to repeat these stories to one who
is destined to be a brave man. I do not wish to lull you to sleep with sweet
words; but I know the conduct of your paternal ancestors. They have been
and are still among the bravest of our tribe. To prove this, I will relate what
happened in your paternal grandfather’s family, twenty years ago.
“Two of his brothers were murdered by a jealous young man of their own
band. The deed was committed without just cause; therefore all the braves
were agreed to punish the murderer with death. When your grandfather was
approached with this suggestion, he replied that he and the remaining
brothers could not condescend to spill the blood of such a wretch, but that
the others might do whatever they thought just with the young man. These
men were foremost among the warriors of the Sioux, and no one questioned

their courage; yet when this calamity was brought upon them by a villain,
they refused to touch him! This, my boy, is a test of true bravery. Self-
possession and self-control at such a moment is proof of a strong heart.
“You have heard of Jingling Thunder the elder, whose brave deeds are
well known to the Villagers of the Lakes. He sought honor ‘in the gates of
the enemy,’ as we often say. The Great Mystery was especially kind to him,
because he was obedient.
“Many winters ago there was a great battle, in which Jingling Thunder
won his first honors. It was forty winters before the falling of many stars,
which event occurred twenty winters after the coming of the black-robed
white priest; and that was fourteen winters before the annihilation by our
people of thirty lodges of the Sac and Fox Indians. I well remember the
latter event—it was just fifty winters ago. However, I will count my sticks
again.”
So saying, Smoky Day produced his bundle of variously colored sticks,
about five inches long. He counted and gave them to me to verify his
calculation.
“But you,” he resumed, “do not care to remember the winters that have
passed. You are young, and care only for the event and the deed. It was very
many years ago that this thing happened that I am about to tell you, and yet
our people speak of it with as much enthusiasm as if it were only yesterday.
Our heroes are always kept alive in the minds of the nation.
“Our people lived then on the east bank of the Mississippi, a little south
of where Imnejah-skah, or White Cliff (St. Paul, Minnesota), now stands.
After they left Mille Lacs they founded several villages, but finally settled
in this spot, whence the tribes have gradually dispersed. Here a battle
occurred which surpassed all others in history. It lasted one whole day—the
Sacs and Foxes and the Dakotas against the Ojibways.
“An invitation in the usual form of a filled pipe was brought to the Sioux
by a brave of the Sac and Fox tribe, to make a general attack upon their
common enemy. The Dakota braves quickly signified their willingness in
the same manner, and it having been agreed to meet upon the St. Croix
river, preparations were immediately begun to despatch a large war-party.
“Among our people there were many tried warriors whose names were
known, and every youth of a suitable age was desirous of emulating them.
As these young novices issued from every camp and almost every teepee,

their mothers, sisters, grandfathers and grandmothers were singing for them
the ‘strong-heart’ songs. An old woman, living with her only grandchild, the
remnant of a once large band who had all been killed at three different times
by different parties of the Ojibways, was conspicuous among the singers.
“Everyone who heard, cast toward her a sympathetic glance, for it was
well known that she and her grandson constituted the remnant of a band of
Sioux, and that her song indicated that her precious child had attained the
age of a warrior, and was now about to join the war-party, and to seek a just
revenge for the annihilation of his family. This was Jingling Thunder, also
familiarly known as ‘The Little Last.’ He was seen to carry with him some
family relics in the shape of war-clubs and lances.
“The aged woman’s song was something like this:

“Go, my brave Jingling Thunder!
Upon the silvery path
Behold that glittering track—

“And yet, my child, remember
How pitiful to live
Survivor of the young!
‘Stablish our name and kin!”

“The Sacs and Foxes were very daring and confident upon this occasion.
They proposed to the Sioux that they should engage alone with the enemy
at first, and let us see how their braves can fight! To this our people
assented, and they assembled upon the hills to watch the struggle between
their allies and the Ojibways. It seemed to be an equal fight, and for a time
no one could tell how the contest would end. Young Jingling Thunder was
an impatient spectator, and it was The Milky Way—believed by the Dakotas
to be the road travelled by the spirits of departed braves hard to keep him
from rushing forward to meet his foes.
“At last a great shout went up, and the Sacs and Foxes were seen to be
retreating with heavy loss. Then the Sioux took the field, and were fast
winning the day, when fresh reinforcements came from the north for the
Ojibways. Up to this time Jingling Thunder had been among the foremost in
the battle, and had engaged in several close encounters. But this fresh attack
of the Ojibways was unexpected, and the Sioux were somewhat tired.
Besides, they had told the Sacs and Foxes to sit upon the hills and rest their

weary limbs and take lessons from their friends the Sioux; therefore no aid
was looked for from any quarter.
“A great Ojibway chief made a fierce onslaught on the Dakotas. This
man Jingling Thunder now rushed forward to meet. The Ojibway boastfully
shouted to his warriors that he had met a tender fawn and would reserve to
himself the honor of destroying it. Jingling Thunder, on his side, exclaimed
that he had met the aged bear of whom he had heard so much, but that he
would need no assistance to overcome him.
“The powerful man flashed his tomahawk in the air over the youthful
warrior’s head, but the brave sprang aside as quick as lightning, and in the
same instant speared his enemy to the heart. As the Ojibway chief gave a
gasping yell and fell in death, his people lost courage; while the success of
the brave Jingling Thunder strengthened the hearts of the Sioux, for they
immediately followed up their advantage and drove the enemy out of their
territory.
“This was the beginning of Jingling Thunder’s career as a warrior. He
afterwards performed even greater acts of valor. He became the ancestor of
a famous band of the Sioux, of whom your own father, Ohiyesa, was a
member. You have doubtless heard his name in connection with many great
events. Yet he was a patient man, and was never known to quarrel with one
of his own nation.”
That night I lay awake a long time committing to memory the tradition I
had heard, and the next day I boasted to my playmate, Little Rainbow,
about my first lesson from the old storyteller. To this he replied:
“I would rather have Weyuhah for my teacher. I think he remembers
more than any of the others. When Weyuhah tells about a battle you can see
it yourself; you can even hear the war-whoop,” he went on with much
enthusiasm.
“That is what his friends say of him; but those who are not his friends say
that he brings many warriors into the battle who were not there,” I answered
indignantly, for I could not admit that old Smoky Day could have a rival.
Before I went to him again Uncheedah had thoughtfully prepared a nice
venison roast for the teacher, and I was proud to take him something good
to eat before beginning his story.

“How,” was his greeting, “so you have begun already, Ohiyesa? Your
family were ever feastmakers as well as warriors.”
Having done justice to the tender meat, he wiped his knife by sticking it
into the ground several times, and put it away in its sheath, after which he
cheerfully recommenced:
“It came to pass not many winters ago that Wakinyan-tonka, the great
medicine man, had a vision; whereupon a war-party set out for the Ojibway
country. There were three brothers of your family among them, all of whom
were noted for valor and the chase.
“Seven battles were fought in succession before they turned to come
back. They had secured a number of the enemy’s birch canoes, and the
whole party came floating down the Mississippi, joyous and happy because
of their success.
“But one night the war-chief announced that there was misfortune at
hand. The next day no one was willing to lead the fleet. The youngest of the
three brothers finally declared that he did not fear death, for it comes when
least expected and he volunteered to take the lead.
“It happened that this young man had left a pretty maiden behind him,
whose choice needlework adorned his quiver. He was very handsome as
well as brave.
“At daybreak the canoes were again launched upon the bosom of the
great river. All was quiet—a few birds beginning to sing. Just as the sun
peeped through the eastern tree-tops a great warcry came forth from the
near shores, and there was a rain of arrows. The birchen canoes were
pierced, and in the excitement many were capsized.
“The Sioux were at a disadvantage. There was no shelter. Their bow-
strings and the feathers on their arrows were wet. The bold Ojibways saw
their advantage and pressed closer and closer; but our men fought
desperately, half in and half out of the water, until the enemy was forced at
last to retreat. Nevertheless that was a sad day for the Wahpeton Sioux; but
saddest of all was Winona’s fate!
“Morning Star, her lover, who led the canoe fleet that morning, was
among the slain. For two days the Sioux braves searched in the water for
their dead, but his body was not recovered.

“At home, meanwhile, the people had been alarmed by ill omens.
Winona, eldest daughter of the great chief, one day entered her birch canoe
alone and paddled up the Mississippi, gazing now into the water around her,
now into the blue sky above. She thought she heard some young men giving
courtship calls in the distance, just as they do at night when approaching the
teepee of the beloved; and she knew the voice of Morning Star well! Surely
she could distinguish his call among the others! Therefore she listened yet
more intently, and looked skyward as her light canoe glided gently up
stream.
“Ah, poor Winona! She saw only six sandhill cranes, looking no larger
than mosquitoes, as they flew in circles high up in the sky, going east where
all spirits go. Something said to her: ‘Those are the spirits of some of the
Sioux braves, and Morning Star is among them!’ Her eye followed the birds
as they traveled in a chain of circles.
“Suddenly she glanced downward. ‘What is this?’ she screamed in
despair. It was Morning Star’s body, floating down the river; his quiver,
worked by her own hands and now dyed with his blood, lay upon the
surface of the water.
“‘Ah, Great Mystery! why do you punish a poor girl so? Let me go with
the spirit of Morning Star!’
“It was evening. The pale moon arose in the east and the stars were
bright. At this very hour the news of the disaster was brought home by a
returning scout, and the village was plunged in grief, but Winona’s spirit
had flown away. No one ever saw her again.
“This is enough for to-day, my boy. You may come again to-morrow.”

II. The Stone Boy
“Ho, mita koda!” (welcome, friend!) was Smoky Day’s greeting, as I
entered his lodge on the third day. “I hope you did not dream of a watery
combat with the Ojibways, after the history I repeated to you yesterday,”
the old sage continued, with a complaisant smile playing upon his face.
“No,” I said, meekly, “but, on the other hand, I have wished that the sun
might travel a little faster, so that I could come for another story.”
“Well, this time I will tell you one of the kind we call myths or fairy
stories. They are about men and women who do wonderful things—things
that ordinary people cannot do at all. Sometimes they are not exactly human
beings, for they partake of the nature of men and beasts, or of men and
gods. I tell you this beforehand, so that you may not ask any questions, or
be puzzled by the inconsistency of the actors in these old stories.
“Once there were ten brothers who lived with their only sister, a young
maiden of sixteen summers. She was very skilful at her embroidery, and her
brothers all had beautifully worked quivers and bows embossed with
porcupine quills. They loved and were kind to her, and the maiden in her
turn loved her brothers dearly, and was content with her position as their
housekeeper. They were great hunters, and scarcely ever remained at home
during the day, but when they returned at evening they would relate to her
all their adventures.
“One night they came home one by one with their game, as usual, all but
the eldest, who did not return. It was supposed by the other brothers that he
had pursued a deer too far from the lodge, or perhaps shot more game than
he could well carry; but the sister had a presentiment that something
dreadful had befallen him. She was partially consoled by the second
brother, who offered to find the lost one in the morning.
“Accordingly, he went in search of him, while the rest set out on the hunt
as usual. Toward evening all had returned safely, save the brother who went
in search of the absent. Again, the next older brother went to look for the
others, and he too returned no more. All the young men disappeared one by
one in this manner, leaving their sister alone.

“The maiden’s sorrow was very great. She wandered everywhere,
weeping and looking for her brothers, but found no trace of them. One day
she was walking beside a beautiful little stream, whose clear waters went
laughing and singing on their way. She could see the gleaming pebbles at
the bottom, and one in particular seemed so lovely to her tear-bedimmed
eyes, that she stooped and picked it up, dropping it within her skin garment
into her bosom. For the first time since her misfortunes she had forgotten
herself and her sorrow.
“At last she went home, much happier than she had been, though she
could not have told the reason why. On the following day she sought again
the place where she had found the pebble, and this time she fell asleep on
the banks of the stream, When she awoke, there lay a beautiful babe in her
bosom.
“She took it up and kissed it many times. And the child was a boy, but it
was heavy like a stone, so she called him a ‘Little Stone Boy.’ The maiden
cried no more, for she was very happy with her baby. The child was
unusually knowing, and walked almost from its birth.
“One day Stone Boy discovered the bow and arrows of one of his uncles,
and desired to have them; but his mother cried, and said:
“‘Wait, my son, until you are a young man.’ She made him some little
ones, and with these he soon learned to hunt, and killed small game enough
to support them both. When he had grown to be a big boy, he insisted upon
knowing whose were the ten bows that still hung upon the walls of his
mother’s lodge.
“At last she was obliged to tell him the sad story of her loss.
“‘Mother, I shall go in search of my uncles,’ exclaimed the Stone Boy.
“‘But you will be lost like them,’ she replied, ‘and then I shall die of
grief.’
“‘No, I shall not be lost. I shall bring your ten brothers back to you.
Look, I will give you a sign. I will take a pillow, and place it upon end.
Watch this, for as long as I am living the pillow will stay as I put it. Mother,
give me some food and some moccasins with which to travel!’
“Taking the bow of one of his uncles, with its quiver full of arrows, the
Stone Boy departed. As he journeyed through the forest he spoke to every
animal he met, asking for news of his lost uncles. Sometimes he called to

them at the top of his voice. Once he thought he heard an answer, so he
walked in the direction of the sound. But it was only a great grizzly bear
who had wantonly mimicked the boy’s call. Then Stone Boy was greatly
provoked.
“‘Was it you who answered my call, you longface?’ he exclaimed.
“Upon this the latter growled and said:
“‘You had better be careful how you address me, or you may be sorry for
what you say!’
“‘Who cares for you, you red-eyes, you ugly thing!’ the boy replied;
whereupon the grizzly immediately set upon him.
“But the boy’s flesh became as hard as stone, and the bear’s great teeth
and claws made no impression upon it. Then he was so dreadfully heavy;
and he kept laughing all the time as if he were being tickled, which greatly
aggravated the bear. Finally Stone Boy pushed him aside and sent an arrow
to his heart.
“He walked on for some distance until he came to a huge fallen pine tree,
which had evidently been killed by lightning. The ground near by bore
marks of a struggle, and Stone Boy picked up several arrows exactly like
those of his uncles, which he himself carried.
“While he was examining these things, he heard a sound like that of a
whirlwind, far up in the heavens. He looked up and saw a black speck
which grew rapidly larger until it became a dense cloud. Out of it came a
flash and then a thunderbolt. The boy was obliged to wink; and when he
opened his eyes, behold! a stately man stood before him and challenged him
to single combat.
“Stone Boy accepted the challenge and they grappled with one another.
The man from the clouds was gigantic in stature and very powerful. But
Stone Boy was both strong and unnaturally heavy and hard to hold. The
great warrior from the sky sweated from his exertions, and there came a
heavy shower. Again and again the lightnings flashed about them as the two
struggled there. At last Stone Boy threw his opponent, who lay motionless.
There was a murmuring sound throughout the heavens and the clouds rolled
swiftly away.
“‘Now,’ thought the hero, ‘this man must have slain all my uncles. I shall
go to his home and find out what has become of them.’ With this he

unfastened from the dead man’s scalp-lock a beautiful bit of scarlet down.
He breathed gently upon it, and as it floated upward he followed into the
blue heavens.
“Away went Stone Boy to the country of the Thunder Birds. It was a
beautiful land, with lakes, rivers, plains and mountains. The young
adventurer found himself looking down from the top of a high mountain,
and the country appeared to be very populous, for he saw lodges all about
him as far as the eye could reach. He particularly noticed a majestic tree
which towered above all the others, and in its bushy top bore an enormous
nest. Stone Boy descended from the mountain and soon arrived at the foot
of the tree; but there were no limbs except those at the top and it was so tall
that he did not attempt to climb it. He simply took out his bit of down,
breathed upon it and floated gently upward.
“When he was able to look into the nest he saw there innumerable eggs
of various sizes, and all of a remarkable red color. He was nothing but a boy
after all, and had all a boy’s curiosity and recklessness. As he was handling
the eggs carelessly, his notice was attracted to a sudden confusion in the
little village below. All of the people seemed to be running toward the tree.
He mischievously threw an egg at them, and in the instant that it broke he
saw one of the men drop dead. Then all began to cry out pitifully, ‘Give me
my heart!’
“‘Ah,’ exclaimed Stone Boy, exulting,’ so these are the hearts of the
people who destroyed my uncles! I shall break them all!’
“And he really did break all of the eggs but four small ones which he
took in his hand. Then he descended the tree, and wandered among the
silent and deserted lodges in search of some trace of his lost uncles. He
found four little boys, the sole survivors of their race, and these he
commanded to tell him where their bones were laid.
“They showed him the spot where a heap of bones was bleaching on the
ground. Then he bade one of the boys bring wood, a second water, a third
stones, and the fourth he sent to cut willow wands for the sweat lodge. They
obeyed, and Stone Boy built the lodge, made a fire, heated the stones and
collected within the lodge all the bones of his ten uncles.
“As he poured the water upon the hot stones faint sounds could be heard
from within the magic bath. These changed to the murmuring of voices, and
finally to the singing of medicine songs. Stone Boy opened the door and his

ten uncles came forth in the flesh, thanking him and blessing him for
restoring them to life. Only the little finger of the youngest uncle was
missing. Stone Boy now heartlessly broke the four remaining eggs, and
took the little finger of the largest boy to supply the missing bone.
“They all returned to earth again and Stone Boy conducted his uncles to
his mother’s lodge. She had never slept during his entire absence, but
watched incessantly the pillow upon which her boy was wont to rest his
head, and by which she was to know of his safety. Going a little in advance
of the others, he suddenly rushed forward into her teepee, exclaiming:
‘Mother, your ten brothers are coming—prepare a feast!’
“For some time after this they all lived happily together. Stone Boy
occupied himself with solitary hunting. He was particularly fond of hunting
the fiercer wild animals. He killed them wantonly and brought home only
the ears, teeth and claws as his spoil, and with these he played as he
laughingly recounted his exploits. His mother and uncles protested, and
begged him at least to spare the lives of those animals held sacred by the
Dakotas, but Stone Boy relied upon his supernatural powers to protect him
from harm.
“One evening, however, he was noticeably silent and upon being pressed
to give the reason, replied as follows:
“‘For some days past I have heard the animals talking of a conspiracy
against us. I was going west the other morning when I heard a crier
announcing a general war upon Stone Boy and his people. The crier was a
Buffalo, going at full speed from west to east. Again, I heard the Beaver
conversing with the Musk-rat, and both said that their services were already
promised to overflow the lakes and rivers and cause a destructive flood. I
heard, also, the little Swallow holding a secret council with all the birds of
the air. He said that he had been appointed a messenger to the Thunder
Birds, and that at a certain signal the doors of the sky would be opened and
rains descend to drown Stone Boy. Old Badger and the Grizzly Bear are
appointed to burrow underneath our fortifications.
“‘However, I am not at all afraid for myself, but I am anxious for you,
Mother, and for my uncles.’
“‘Ugh!’ grunted all the uncles, ‘we told you that you would get into
trouble by killing so many of our sacred animals for your own amusement.

“‘But,’ continued Stone Boy, ‘I shall make a good resistance, and I
expect you all to help me.’
“Accordingly they all worked under his direction in preparing for the
defence. First of all, he threw a pebble into the air, and behold a great rocky
wall around their teepee. A second, third, fourth and fifth pebble became
other walls without the first. From the sixth and seventh were formed two
stone lodges, one upon the other. The uncles meantime, made numbers of
bows and quivers full of arrows, which were ranged at convenient distances
along the tops of the walls. His mother prepared great quantities of food and
made many moccasins for her boy, who declared that he would defend the
fortress alone.
“At last they saw the army of beasts advancing, each tribe by itself and
commanded by a leader of extraordinary size. The onset was terrific. They
flung themselves against the high walls with savage cries, while the badgers
and other burrowing animals ceaselessly worked to undermine them. Stone
Boy aimed his sharp arrows with such deadly effect that his enemies fell by
thousands. So great was their loss that the dead bodies of the animals
formed a barrier higher than the first, and the armies retired in confusion.
“But reinforcements were at hand. The rain fell in torrents; the beavers
had dammed all the rivers and there was a great flood. The besieged all
retreated into the innermost lodge, but the water poured in through the
burrows made by the badgers and gophers, and rose until Stone Boy’s
mother and his ten uncles were all drowned. Stone Boy himself could not
be entirely destroyed, but he was overcome by his enemies and left half
buried in the earth, condemned never to walk again, and there we find him
to this day.
“This was because he abused his strength, and destroyed for mere
amusement the lives of the creatures given him for use only.”

VI. EVENING IN THE LODGE

I: Evening in the Lodge
I HAD been skating on that part of the lake where there was an overflow,
and came home somewhat cold. I cannot say just how cold it was, but it
must have been intensely so, for the trees were cracking all about me like
pistol shots. I did not mind, because I was wrapped up in my buffalo robe
with the hair inside, and a wide leather belt held it about my loins. My
skates were nothing more than strips of basswood bark bound upon my feet.
I had taken off my frozen moccasins and put on dry ones in their places.
“Where have you been and what have you been doing?” Uncheedah
asked as she placed before me some roast venison in a wooden bowl. “Did
you see any tracks of moose or bear?”
“No, grandmother, I have only been playing at the lower end of the lake.
I have something to ask you,” I said, eating my dinner and supper together
with all the relish of a hungry boy who has been skating in the cold for half
a day.
“I found this feather, grandmother, and I could not make out what tribe
wear feathers in that shape.”
“Ugh, I am not a man; you had better ask your uncle. Besides, you should
know it yourself by this time. You are now old enough to think about eagle
feathers.”
I felt mortified by this reminder of my ignorance. It seemed a reflection
on me that I was not ambitious enough to have found all such matters out
before.
“Uncle, you will tell me, won’t you?” I said, in an appealing tone.
“I am surprised, my boy, that you should fail to recognize this feather. It
is a Cree medicine feather, and not a warrior’s.”
“Then,” I said, with much embarrassment, “you had better tell me again,
uncle, the language of the feathers. I have really forgotten it all.”
The day was now gone; the moon had risen; but the cold had not
lessened, for the trunks of the trees were still snapping all around our
teepee, which was lighted and warmed by the immense logs which

Uncheedah’s industry had provided. My uncle, White Foot-print, now
undertook to explain to me the significance of the eagle’s feather.
“The eagle is the most war-like bird,” he began, “and the most kingly of
all birds; besides, his feathers are unlike any others, and these are the
reasons why they are used by our people to signify deeds of bravery.
“It is not true that when a man wears a feather bonnet, each one of the
feathers represents the killing of a foe or even a coup. When a man wears an
eagle feather upright upon his head, he is supposed to have counted one of
four coups upon his enemy.”
“Well, then, a coup does not mean the killing of an enemy?”
“No, it is the after-stroke or touching of the body after he falls. It is so
ordered, because oftentimes the touching of an enemy is much more
difficult to accomplish than the shooting of one from a distance. It requires
a strong heart to face the whole body of the enemy, in order to count the
coup on the fallen one, who lies under cover of his kinsmen’s fire. Many a
brave man has been lost in the attempt.
“When a warrior approaches his foe, dead or alive, he calls upon the
other warriors to witness by saying: ‘I, Fearless Bear, your brave, again
perform the brave deed of counting the first (or second or third or fourth)
coup upon the body of the bravest of your enemies.’ Naturally, those who
are present will see the act and be able to testify to it. When they return, the
heralds, as you know, announce publicly all such deeds of valor, which then
become a part of the man’s war record. Any brave who would wear the
eagle’s feather must give proof of his right to do so.
“When a brave is wounded in the same battle where he counted his coup,
he wears the feather hanging downward. When he is wounded, but makes
no count, he trims his feather and in that case, it need not be an eagle
feather. All other feathers are merely ornaments. When a warrior wears a
feather with a round mark, it means that he slew his enemy. When the mark
is cut into the feather and painted red, it means that he took the scalp.
“A brave who has been successful in ten battles is entitled to a war-
bonnet; and if he is a recognized leader, he is permitted to wear one with
long, trailing plumes. Also those who have counted many coups may tip the
ends of the feathers with bits of white or colored down. Sometimes the
eagle feather is tipped with a strip of weasel skin; that means the wearer had

the honor of killing, scalping and counting the first coup upon the enemy all
at the same time.
“This feather you have found was worn by a Cree—it is indiscriminately
painted. All other feathers worn by the common Indians mean nothing,” he
added.
“Tell me, uncle, whether it would be proper for me to wear any feathers
at all if I have never gone upon the war-path.”
“You could wear any other kind of feathers, but not an eagle’s,” replied
my uncle, “although sometimes one is worn on great occasions by the child
of a noted man, to indicate the father’s dignity and position.”
The fire had gone down somewhat, so I pushed the embers together and
wrapped my robe more closely about me. Now and then the ice on the lake
would burst with a loud report like thunder. Uncheedah was busy re-
stringing one of uncle’s old snow-shoes. There were two different kinds that
he wore; one with a straight toe and long; the other shorter and with an
upturned toe. She had one of the shoes fastened toe down, between sticks
driven into the ground, while she put in some new strings and tightened the
others. Aunt Four Stars was beading a new pair of moccasins.
Wabeda, the dog, the companion of my boyhood days, was in trouble
because he insisted upon bringing his extra bone into the teepee, while
Uncheedah was determined that he should not. I sympathized with him,
because I saw the matter as he did. If he should bury it in the snow outside,
I knew Shunktokecha (the coyote) would surely steal it. I knew just how
anxious Wabeda was about his bone. It was a fat bone—I mean a bone of a
fat deer; and all Indians know how much better they are than the other kind.
Wabeda always hated to see a good thing go to waste. His eyes spoke
words to me, for he and I had been friends for a long time. When I was
afraid of anything in the woods, he would get in front of me at once and
gently wag his tail. He always made it a point to look directly in my face.
His kind, large eyes gave me a thousand assurances. When I was perplexed,
he would hang about me until he understood the situation. Many times I
believed he saved my life by uttering the dog word in time.
Most animals, even the dangerous grizzly, do not care to be seen when
the two-legged kind and his dog are about. When I feared a surprise by a
bear or a grey wolf, I would say to Wabeda: “Now, my dog, give your war-
whoop:” and immediately he would sit up on his haunches and bark “to beat

the band” as you white boys say. When a bear or wolf heard the noise, he
would be apt to retreat.
Sometimes I helped Wabeda and gave a warwhoop of my own. This
drove the deer away as well, but it relieved my mind.
When he appealed to me on this occasion, therefore, I said: “Come, my
dog, let us bury your bone so that no Shunktokecha will take it.”
He appeared satisfied with my suggestion, so we went out together.
We dug in the snow and buried our bone wrapped up in a piece of old
blanket, partly burned; then we covered it up again with snow. We knew
that the coyote would not touch anything burnt. I did not put it up a tree
because Wabeda always objected to that, and I made it a point to consult his
wishes whenever I could.
I came in and Wabeda followed me with two short rib bones in his
mouth. Apparently he did not care to risk those delicacies.
“There,” exclaimed Uncheedah, “you still insist upon bringing in some
sort of bone!” but I begged her to let him gnaw them inside because it was
so cold. Having been granted this privilege, he settled himself at my back
and I became absorbed in some specially nice arrows that uncle was
making.
“O, uncle, you must put on three feathers to all of them so that they can
fly straight,” I suggested.
“Yes, but if there are only two feathers, they will fly faster,” he answered.
“Woow!” Wabeda uttered his suspicions.
“Woow!” he said again, and rushed for the entrance of the teepee. He
kicked me over as he went and scattered the burning embers.
“En na he na!” Uncheedah exclaimed, but he was already outside.
“Wow, wow, wow! Wow, Wow, wow!”
A deep guttural voice answered him.
Out I rushed with my bow and arrows in my hand.
“Come, uncle, come! A big cinnamon bear!” I shouted as I emerged from
the teepee.
Uncle sprang out and in a moment he had sent a swift arrow through the
bear’s heart. The animal fell dead. He had just begun to dig up Wabeda’s
bone, when the dog’s quick ear had heard the sound.

“Ah, uncle, Wabeda and I ought to have at least a little eaglet’s feather
for this. I too sent my small arrow into the bear before he fell,” I exclaimed.
“But I thought all bears ought to be in their lodges in the winter time. What
was this one doing at this time of the year and night?”
“Well,” said my uncle, “I will tell you. Among the tribes, some are
naturally lazy. The cinnamon bear is the lazy one of his tribe. He alone
sleeps out of doors in the winter and because he has not a warm bed, he is
soon hungry. Sometimes he lives in the hollow trunk of a tree, where he has
made a bed of dry grass; but when the night is very cold, like to-night, he
has to move about to keep himself from freezing and as he prowls around,
he gets hungry.”
We dragged the huge carcass within our lodge. “O, what nice claws he
has, uncle!” I exclaimed eagerly. “Can I have them for my necklace?”
“It is only the old medicine men who wear them regularly. The son of a
great warrior who has killed a grizzly may wear them upon a public
occasion,” he explained.
“And you are just like my father and are considered the best hunter
among the Santees and Sissetons. You have killed many grizzlies so that no
one can object to my bear’s-claws necklace,” I said appealingly.
White Foot-print smiled. “My boy, you shall have them,” he said, “but it
is always better to earn them yourself.” He cut the claws off carefully for
my use.
“Tell me, uncle, whether you could wear these claws all the time?” I
asked.
“Yes, I am entitled to wear them, but they are so heavy and
uncomfortable,” he replied, with a superior air.
At last the bear had been skinned and dressed and we all resumed our
usual places. Uncheedah was particularly pleased to have some more fat for
her cooking.
“Now, grandmother, tell me the story of the bear’s fat. I shall be so happy
if you will,” I begged.
“It is a good story and it is true. You should know it by heart and gain a
lesson from it,” she replied. “It was in the forests of Minnesota, in the
country that now belongs to the Ojibways. From the Bedawakanton Sioux
village a young married couple went into the woods to get fresh venison.

The snow was deep; the ice was thick. Far away in the woods they pitched
their lonely teepee. The young man was a well-known hunter and his wife a
good maiden of the village.
“He hunted entirely on snow-shoes, because the snow was very deep. His
wife had to wear snow-shoes too, to get to the spot where they pitched their
tent. It was thawing the day they went out, so their path was distinct after
the freeze came again.
“The young man killed many deer and bears. His wife was very busy
curing the meat and trying out the fat while he was away hunting each day.
In the evenings she kept on trying the fat. He sat on one side of the teepee
and she on the other.
“One evening, she had just lowered a kettle of fat to cool, and as she
looked into the hot fat she saw the face of an Ojibway scout looking down
at them through the smoke-hole. She said nothing, nor did she betray
herself in any way.
“After a little she said to her husband in a natural voice: ‘Marpeetopah,
some one is looking at us through the smoke hole, and I think it is an
enemy’s scout.’
“Then Marpeetopah (Four-skies) took up his bow and arrows and began
to straighten and dry them for the next day’s hunt, talking and laughing
meanwhile. Suddenly he turned and sent an arrow upward, killing the
Ojibway, who fell dead at their door.
“‘Quick, Wadutah!’ he exclaimed; ‘you must hurry home upon our trail. I
will stay here. When this scout does not return, the warparty may come in a
body or send another scout. If only one comes, I can soon dispatch him and
then I will follow you. If I do not do that, they will overtake us in our
flight.’
“Wadutah (Scarlet) protested and begged to be allowed to stay with her
husband, but at last she came away to get reinforcements.
“Then Marpeetopah (Four-skies) put more sticks on the fire so that the
teepee might be brightly lit and show him the way. He then took the scalp
of the enemy and proceeded on his track, until he came to the upturned root
of a great tree. There he spread out his arrows and laid out his tomahawk.
“Soon two more scouts were sent by the Ojibway war-party to see what
was the trouble and why the first one failed to come back. He heard them as

they approached. They were on snowshoes. When they came close to him,
he shot an arrow into the foremost. As for the other, in his effort to turn
quickly his snow-shoes stuck in the deep snow and detained him, so
Marpeetopah killed them both.
“Quickly he took the scalps and followed Wadutah. He ran hard. But the
Ojibways suspected something wrong and came to the lonely teepee, to find
all their scouts had been killed. They followed the path of Marpeetopah and
Wadutah to the main village, and there a great battle was fought on the ice.
Many were killed on both sides. It was after this that the Sioux moved to
the Mississippi river.”
I was sleepy by this time and I rolled myself up in my buffalo robe and
fell asleep.

II. Adventures of My Uncle
IT was a beautiful fall day—‘a gopher’s last look back,’ as we used to say
of the last warm days of the late autumn. We were encamped beside a wild
rice lake, where two months before we had harvested our watery fields of
grain, and where we had now returned for the duck-hunting. All was well
with us. Ducks were killed in countless numbers, and in the evenings the
men hunted deer in canoes by torchlight along the shores of the lake. But
alas! life is made up of good times and bad times, and it is when we are
perfectly happy that we should expect some overwhelming misfortune.
“So it was that upon this peaceful and still morning, all of a sudden a
harsh and terrible war-cry was heard! Your father was then quite a young
man, and a very ambitious warrior, so that I was always frightened on his
account whenever there was a chance of fighting. But I did not think of
your uncle, Mysterious Medicine, for he was not over fifteen at the time;
besides, he had never shown any taste for the field.
“Our camp was thrown into great excitement; and as the warriors
advanced to meet the enemy, I was almost overcome by the sight of your
uncle among them! It was of no use for me to call him back—I think I
prayed in that moment to the Great Mystery to bring my boy safely home.
“I shall never forget, as long as I live, the events of that day. Many brave
men were killed; among them two of your uncle’s intimate friends. But
when the battle was over, my boy came back; only his face was blackened
in mourning for his friends, and he bore several wounds in his body. I knew
that he had proved himself a true warrior.
“This was the beginning of your uncle’s career, He has surpassed your
father and your grandfather; yes, all his ancestors except Jingling Thunder,
in daring and skill.”
Such was my grandmother’s account of the maiden battle of her third
son, Mysterious Medicine. He achieved many other names; among them
Big Hunter, Long Rifle and White Footprint. He had a favorite Kentucky
rifle which he carried for many years. The stock was several times broken,
but he always made another. With this gun he excelled most of his

contemporaries in accuracy of aim. He used to call the weapon
Ishtahbopopa—a literal translation would be “Pops-the-eye.”
My uncle, who was a father to me for ten years of my life, was almost a
giant in his proportions, very symmetrical and “straight as an arrow.” His
face was not at all handsome. He had very quiet and reserved manners and
was a man of action rather than of unnecessary words. Behind the veil of
Indian reticence he had an inexhaustible fund of wit and humor; but this
part of his character only appeared before his family and very intimate
friends. Few men know nature more thoroughly than he. Nothing irritated
him more than to hear some natural fact misrepresented. I have often
thought that with education he might have made a Darwin or an Agassiz.
He was always modest and unconscious of self in relating his adventures.
“I have often been forced to realize my danger,” he used to say, “but not in
such a way as to overwhelm me. Only twice in my life have I been really
frightened, and for an instant lost my presence of mind.
“Once I was in full pursuit of a large buck deer that I had wounded. It
was winter, and there was a very heavy fall of fresh snow upon the ground.
All at once I came upon the body of the deer lying dead on the snow. I
began to make a hasty examination, but before I had made any discoveries,
I spied the tips of two ears peeping just above the surface of the snow about
twenty feet from me. I made a feint of not seeing anything at all, but moved
quickly in the direction of my gun, which was leaning against a tree.
Feeling, somehow, that I was about to be taken advantage of, I snatched at
the same moment my knife from my belt.
“The panther (for such it was) made a sudden and desperate spring. I
tried to dodge, but he was too quick for me. He caught me by the shoulder
with his great paw, and threw me down. Somehow, he did not retain his
hold, but made another leap and again concealed himself in the snow.
Evidently he was preparing to make a fresh attack.
“I was partially stunned and greatly confused by the blow; therefore I
should have been an easy prey for him at the moment. But when he left me,
I came to my senses; and I had been thrown near my gun! I arose and aimed
between the tips of his ears—all that was visible of him—and fired. I saw
the fresh snow fly from the spot. The panther leaped about six feet straight
up into the air, and fell motionless. I gave two good warwhoops, because I
had conquered a very formidable enemy. I sat down on the dead body to

rest, and my heart beat as if it would knock out all my ribs. I had not been
expecting any danger, and that was why I was so taken by surprise.
“The other time was on the plains, in summer. I was accustomed to
hunting in the woods, and never before had hunted buffalo on horseback.
Being a young man, of course I was eager to do whatever other men did.
Therefore I saddled my pony for the hunt. I had a swift pony and a good
gun, but on this occasion I preferred a bow and arrows.
“It was the time of year when the buffalo go in large herds and the bulls
are vicious. But this did not trouble me at all; indeed, I thought of nothing
but the excitement and honor of the chase.
“A vast plain near the Souris river was literally covered with an immense
herd. The day was fair, and we came up with them very easily. I had a
quiver full of arrows, with a sinew-backed bow.
“My pony carried me in far ahead of all the others. I found myself in the
midst of the bulls first, for they are slow. They threw toward me vicious
glances, so I hastened my pony on to the cows. Soon I was enveloped in a
thick cloud of dust, and completely surrounded by the herd, who were by
this time in the act of fleeing, their hoofs making a noise like thunder.
“I could not think of anything but my own situation, which confused me
for the moment. It seemed to me to be a desperate one. If my pony, which
was going at full speed, should step into a badger hole, I should be thrown
to the ground and trampled under foot in an instant. If I were to stop, they
would knock me over, pony and all. Again, it seemed as if my horse must
fall from sheer exhaustion; and then what would become of me?
“At last I awoke to a calm realization of my own power. I uttered a yell
and began to shoot right and left. Very soon there were only a few old bulls
who remained near me. The herd had scattered, and I was miles away from
my companions.
“It is when we think of our personal danger that we are apt to be at a loss
to do the best thing under the circumstances. One should be unconscious of
self in order to do his duty. We are very apt to think ourselves brave, when
we are most timid. I have discovered that half our young men give the war-
whoop when they are frightened, because they fear lest their silence may
betray their state of mind. I think we are really bravest when most calm and
slow to action.”

I urged my uncle to tell me more of his adventures.
“Once,” said he, “I had a somewhat peculiar experience, which I think I
never related to you before. It was at the time of the fall hunt. One
afternoon when I was alone I discovered that I was too far away to reach the
camp before dark, so I looked about for a good place to spend the night.
This was on the Upper Missouri, before there were any white people there,
and when we were in constant danger from wild beasts as well as from
hostile Indians. It was necessary to use every precaution and the utmost
vigilance.
“I selected a spot which appeared to be well adapted to defense. I had
killed two deer, and I hung up pieces of the meat at certain distances in
various directions. I knew that any wolf would stop for the meat, A grizzly
bear would sometimes stop, but not a mountain lion or a panther. Therefore
I made a fire. Such an animal would be apt to attack a solitary fire. There
was a full moon that night, which was much in my favor.
“Having cooked and eaten some of the venison, I rolled myself in my
blanket and lay down by the fire, taking my Ishtahbopopa for a bed fellow. I
hugged it very closely, for I felt that I should need it during the night. I had
scarcely settled myself when I heard what seemed to be ten or twelve
coyotes set up such a howling that I was quite sure of a visit from them.
Immediately after-. ward I heard another sound, which was like the
screaming of a small child. This was a porcupine, which had doubtless
smelled the meat.
“I watched until a coyote appeared upon a flat rock fifty yards away. He
sniffed the air in every direction; then, sitting partly upon his haunches,
swung round in a circle with his hind legs sawing the air, and howled and
barked in many different keys. It was a great feat! I could not help
wondering whether I should be able to imitate him. What had seemed to be
the voices of many coyotes was in reality only one animal. His mate soon
appeared and then they both seemed satisfied, and showed no signs of a
wish to invite another to join them. Presently they both suddenly and
quietly disappeared.
“At this moment a slight noise attracted my attention, and I saw that the
porcupine had arrived. He had climbed up to the piece of meat nearest me,
and was helping himself without any ceremony. I thought it was fortunate
that he came, for he would make a good watch dog for me. Very soon, in

fact, he interrupted his meal, and caused all his quills to stand out in
defiance. I glanced about me and saw the two coyotes slyly approaching my
open camp from two different directions.
“I took the part of the porcupine! I rose in a sitting posture, and sent a
swift arrow to each of my unwelcome visitors. They both ran away with
howls of surprise and pain.
“The porcupine saw the whole from his perch, but his meal was not at all
disturbed, for he began eating again with apparent relish. Indeed, I was soon
furnished with another of these unconscious protectors. This one came from
the opposite direction to a point where I had hung a splendid ham of
venison. He cared to go no further, but seated himself at once on a
convenient branch and began his supper.
“The canon above me was full of rocks and trees. From this direction
came a startling noise, which caused me more concern than anything I had
thus far heard. It sounded much like a huge animal stretching himself, and
giving a great yawn which ended in a scream. I knew this for the voice of a
mountain lion, and it decided me to perch upon a limb for the rest of the
night.
“I got up and climbed into the nearest large tree, taking my weapons with
me; but first I rolled a short log of wood in my blanket and laid it in my
place by the fire.
“As I got up, the two porcupines began to descend, but I paid no attention
to them, and they soon returned to their former positions. Very soon I heard
a hissing sound from one of them, and knew that an intruder was near. Two
grey wolves appeared.
“I had hung the hams by the ham strings, and they were fully eight feet
from the ground. At first the wolves came boldly forward, but the warning
of the porcupines caused them to stop, and hesitate to jump for the meat.
However, they were hungry, and began to leap savagely for the hams,
although evidently they proved good targets for the quills of the prickly
ones, for occasionally one of them would squeal and rub his nose
desperately against the tree.
“At last one of the wolves buried his teeth too deeply in a tough portion
of the flesh, and having jumped to reach it, his own weight made it
impossible for him to loosen his upper jaw. There the grey wolf dangled,
kicking and yelping, until the tendon of the ham gave way, and both fell

heavily to the ground. From my hiding-place I sent two arrows into his
body, which ended his life. The other one ran away to a little distance and
remained there a long time, as if waiting for her mate.
“I was now very weary, but I had seen many grizzly bears’ tracks in the
vicinity, and besides, I had not forgotten the dreadful scream of the
mountain lion. I determined to continue my watch.
“As I had half expected, there came presently a sudden heavy fall, and at
the same time the burning embers were scattered about and the fire almost
extinguished. My blanket with the log in it was rolled over several times,
amid snarls and growls. Then the assailant of my camp—a panther—leaped
back into the thick underbrush, but not before my arrow had penetrated his
side. He snarled and tried to bite off the shaft, but after a time became
exhausted and lay still.
“I could now distinguish the grey dawn in the east. I was exceedingly
drowsy, so I fastened myself by a rope of raw-hide to the trunk of the tree
against which I leaned. I was seated on a large limb, and soon fell asleep.
“I was rudely awakened by the report of a gun directly under me. At the
same time, I thought some one was trying to shake me off the tree, Instantly
I reached for my gun. Alas! it was gone! At the first shake of the tree by my
visitor, a grizzly bear, the gun had fallen, and as it was cocked, it went off.
“The bear picked up the weapon and threw it violently away; then he
again shook the tree with all his strength. I shouted:
“‘I have still a bow and a quiver full of arrows; you had better let me
alone.’
“He replied to this with a rough growl. I sent an arrow into his side, and
he groaned like a man as he tried hard to pull it out. I had to give him
several more before he went a short distance away, and died. It was now
daylight, so I came down from my perch. I was stiff, and scarcely able to
walk. I found that the bear had killed both of my little friends, the
porcupines, and eaten most of the meat.
“Perhaps you wonder, Ohiyesa, why I did not use my gun in the
beginning; but I had learned that if I once missed my aim with it, I had no
second chance. I have told of this particular adventure, because it was an
unusual experience to see so many different animals in one night. I have
often been in similar places, and killed one or two. Once a common black

bear stole a whole deer from me without waking me. But all this life is fast
disappearing, and the world is becoming different.”

VII. THE END OF THE BEAR DANCE
IT was one of the superstitions of the Santee Sioux to treat disease from
the standpoint of some animal or inanimate thing. That person who,
according to their belief, had been commissioned to become a medicine
man or a war chief, must not disobey the bear or other creature or thing
which gave him his commission. If he ever ventured to do so, the offender
must pay for his insubordination with his life, or that of his own child or
dearest friend. It was supposed to be necessary that the supernatural orders
be carried into effect at a particular age and a certain season of the year.
Occasionally a very young man, who excused himself on the ground of
youth and modesty, might be forgiven.
One of my intimate friends had been a sufferer from what, I suppose,
must have been consumption. He, like myself, had a grandmother in whom
he had unlimited faith. But she was a very ambitious and pretentious
woman. Among her many claims was that of being a great “medicine
woman,” and many were deceived by it; but really she was a fraud, for she
did not give any medicine, but “conjured” the sick exclusively.
At this time my little friend was fast losing ground, in spite of his
grandmother’s great pretensions. At last I hinted to him that my
grandmother was a herbalist, and a skilful one. But he hinted back to me
that ‘most any old woman who could dig roots could be a herbalist, and that
without a supernatural commission there was no power that could cope with
disease. I defended my ideal on the ground that there are supernatural
powers in the herbs themselves; hence those who understand them have
these powers at their command.
“But,” insisted my friend, “one must get his knowledge from the Great
Mystery!”
This completely silenced my argument, but did not shake my faith in my
grandmother’s ability.
Redhorn was a good boy, and I loved him. I visited him often, and found
him growing weaker day by day.

“Ohiyesa,” he said to me one day, “my grandmother has discovered the
cause of my sickness.”
I eagerly interrupted him by shouting: “And can she cure you now,
Redhorn?”
“Of course,” he replied, “she cannot until I have fulfilled the
commandment. I have confessed to her that two years ago I received my
commission, and I should have made a Bear Dance and proclaimed myself
a medicine man last spring, when I had seen thirteen winters. You see, I was
ashamed to proclaim myself a medicine man, being so young; and for this I
am punished. However, my grandmother says it is not yet too late. But,
Ohiyesa, I am as weak now as a rheumatic old man. I can scarcely stand up.
They say that I can appoint some one else to act for me. He will be the
active bear—I shall have to remain in the hole. Would you, Ohiyesa, be
willing to act the bear for me? You know he has to chase the dancers away
from his den.”
“Redhorn,” I replied with much embarrassment, “I should be happy to do
anything that I could for you, but I cannot be a bear. I feel that I am not fit. I
am not large enough; I am not strong enough; and I don’t understand the
habits of the animal well enough. I do not think you would be pleased with
me as your substitute.”
Redhorn finally decided that he would engage a larger boy to perform for
him. A few days later, it was announced by the herald that my friend would
give a Bear Dance, at which he was to be publicly proclaimed a medicine
man. It would be the great event of his short existence, for the disease had
already exhausted his strength and vitality. Of course, we all understood
that there would be an active youth to exhibit the ferocious nature of the
beast after which the dance is named.
The Bear Dance was an entertainment, a religious rite, a method of
treating disease—all in one. A strange thing about it was that no woman
was allowed to participate in the orgies, unless she was herself the bear.
The den was usually dug about two hundred yards from the camp, on
some conspicuous plain. It was about two feet deep and six feet square and
over it was constructed an arbor of boughs with four openings. When the
bear man sang, all the men and boys would gather and dance about the den;
and when he came out and pursued them there was a hasty retreat. It was
supposed that whoever touched the bear without being touched by him

would overcome a foe in the field. If one was touched, the reverse was to be
expected. The thing which caused most anxiety among the dancers was the
superstition that if one of them should accidentally trip and fall while
pursued by the bear, a sudden death would visit him or his nearest relative.
Boys of my age were disposed to run some risk in this dance; they would
take every opportunity to strike at the bear man with a short switch, while
the older men shot him with powder. It may as well be admitted that one
reason for my declining the honor offered me by my friend Redhorn was
that I was afraid of powder, and I much preferred to be one of the dancers
and take my chances of touching the bear man without being touched.
It was a beautiful summer’s day. The forest behind our camp was sweet
with the breath of blossoming flowers. The teepees faced a large lake,
which we called Bedatanka. Its gentle waves cooled the atmosphere. The
water-fowl disported themselves over its surface, and the birds of passage
overhead noisily expressed their surprise at the excitement and confusion in
our midst.
The herald, with his brassy voice, again went the rounds, announcing the
day’s event and the tardy fulfillment of the boy’s commission. Then came
the bustle of preparation. The out-door toilet of the people was performed
with care. I cannot describe just how I was attired or painted, but I am under
the impression that there was but little of my brown skin that was not
uncovered. The others were similarly dressed in feathers, paint and tinkling
ornaments.
I soon heard the tom-tom’s doleful sound from the direction of the bear’s
den, and a few warwhoops from the throats of the youthful warriors. As I
joined the motley assembly, I noticed that the bear man’s drum was going in
earnest, and soon after he began to sing. This was the invitation to the
dance.
An old warrior gave the signal and we all started for the den, very much
like a group of dogs attacking a stranger. Frantically we yelled and
whooped, running around the sheltering arbor in a hop, skip and jump
fashion. In spite of the apparent confusion, however, every participant was
on the alert for the slightest movement of the bear man.
All of a sudden, a brave gave the warning, and we scattered in an instant
over the little plain between the den and our village. Everybody seemed to
be running for dear life, and I soon found myself some yards behind the

rest. I had gone in boldly, partly because of conversations with certain boys
who proposed to participate, and whom I usually outdistanced in foot races.
But it seemed that they had not carried out their intentions and I was left
alone. I looked back once or twice, although I was pretty busy with my legs,
and I imagined that my pursuer, the bear man, looked twice as fearful as a
real bear. He was dressed and painted up with a view to terrify the crowd. I
did not want the others to guess that I was at all dismayed, so I tried to give
the war-whoop; but my throat was so dry at the moment that I am sure I
must have given it very poorly.
Just as it seemed that I was about to be overtaken, the dancers who had
deserted me suddenly slackened their speed, and entered upon the
amusement of tormenting the bear man with gunpowder and switches, with
which they touched him far from gently upon his naked body. They now
chased him in turn, and he again retreated to his den.
We rested until we heard the tom-tom and the song once more, and then
we rushed forth with fresh eagerness to the mimic attack. This time I
observed all necessary precautions for my own safety. I started in my flight
even before the warning was given, for I saw the bear man gathering
himself up to spring upon the dancers. Thus I had plenty of leeway to
observe what occurred. The bear man again pursued the yelling and
retreating mob, and was dealt with unmercifully by the swift-footed. He
became much excited as he desperately chased a middle-aged man, who
occasionally turned and fired off his gun, but was suddenly tripped by an
ant-hill and fell to the ground, with the other on top of him. The excitement
was intense. The bear man returned to his companion, and the dancers
gathered in little knots to exchange whispers.
“Is it not a misfortune?” “The most surefooted of us all!” “Will he die?”
“Must his beautiful daughter be sacrificed?”
The man who was the subject of all this comment did not speak a word.
His head hung down. Finally he raised it and said in a resolute voice:
“We all have our time to go, and when the Great Mystery calls us we
must answer as cheerfully as at the call of one of our own war-chiefs here
on earth. I am not sad for myself, but my heart is not willing that my
Winona (first-born daughter) should be called.”
No one replied. Presently the last tom-tom was heard and the dancers
rallied once more. The man who had fallen did not join them, but turned to

the council lodge, where the wise old men were leisurely enjoying the
calumet. They beheld him enter with some surprise; but he threw himself
upon a buffalo robe, and resting his head upon his right hand, related what
had happened to him. Thereupon the aged men exclaimed as with one
voice: “It never fails!” After this, he spoke no more.
Meanwhile, we were hilariously engaged in our last dance, and when the
bear man finally retired, we gathered about the arbor to congratulate the
sick bear man. But, to our surprise, his companion did not re-enter the den.
“He is dead! Redhorn, the bear man, is dead!” We all rushed to the spot. My
poor friend, Redhorn, lay dead in the den.
At this instant there was another commotion in the camp. Everybody was
running toward the council lodge. A well-known medicine man was loudly
summoned thither. But, alas! the man who fell in the dance had suddenly
dropped dead.
To the people, another Indian superstition had been verified.

VIII. THE MAIDENS’ FEAST
THERE were many peculiar customs among the Indians of an earlier
period, some of which tended to strengthen the character of the people and
preserve their purity. Perhaps the most unique of these was the annual “feast
of maidens.” The casual observer would scarcely understand the full force
and meaning of this ceremony.
The last one that I ever witnessed was given at Fort Ellis, Manitoba,
about the year 1871. Upon the table land just back of the old trading post
and fully a thousand feet above the Assiniboine river, surrounded by groves,
there was a natural amphitheatre. At one end stood the old fort where since
1830 the northern tribes had come to replenish their powder horns and lead
sacks and to dispose of their pelts.
In this spot there was a reunion of all the renegade Sioux on the one hand
and of the Assiniboines and Crees, the Canadian tribes, on the other. They
were friendly. The matter was not formally arranged, but it was usual for all
the tribes to meet here in the month of July.
The Hudson Bay Company always had a good supply of red, blue, green
and white blankets, also cloth of brilliant dye, so that when their summer
festival occurred the Indians did not lack gayly colored garments. Paints
were bought by them at pleasure. Short sleeves were the fashion in their
buckskin dresses, and beads and porcupine quills were the principal
decorations.
When circumstances are favorable, the Indians are the happiest people in
the world. There were entertainments every single day, which everybody
had the fullest opportunity to see and enjoy. If anything, the poorest profited
the most by these occasions, because a feature in each case was the giving
away of savage wealth to the needy in honor of the event. At any public
affair, involving the pride and honor of a prominent family, there must
always be a distribution of valuable presents.
One bright summer morning, while we were still at our meal of jerked
buffalo meat, we heard the herald of the Wahpeton band upon his calico
pony as he rode around our circle.

“White Eagle’s daughter, the maiden Red Star, invites all the maidens of
all the tribes to come and partake of her feast. It will be in the Wahpeton
camp, before the sun reaches the middle of the sky. All pure maidens are
invited. Red Star also invites the young men to be present, to see that no
unworthy maiden should join in the feast.”
The herald soon completed the rounds of the different camps, and it was
not long before the girls began to gather in great numbers. The fort was
fully alive to the interest of these savage entertainments. This particular
feast was looked upon as a semi-sacred affair. It would be desecration for
any to attend who was not perfectly virtuous. Hence it was regarded as an
opportune time for the young men to satisfy themselves as to who were the
virtuous maids of the tribe.
There were apt to be surprises before the end of the day. Any young man
was permitted to challenge any maiden whom he knew to be unworthy. But
woe to him who could not prove his case. It meant little short of death to the
man who endeavored to disgrace a woman without cause.
The youths had a similar feast of their own, in which the eligibles were
those who had never spoken to a girl in the way of courtship. It was
considered ridiculous so to do before attaining some honor as a warrior, and
the novices prided themselves greatly upon their self control.
From the various camps the girls came singly or in groups, dressed in
bright-colored calicoes or in heavily fringed and beaded buckskin. Their
smooth cheeks and the central part of their glossy hair was touched with
vermilion. All brought with them wooden basins to eat from. Some who
came from a considerable distance were mounted upon ponies; a few, for
company or novelty’s sake, rode double.
The maidens’ circle was formed about a coneshaped rock which stood
upon its base. This was painted red. Beside it two new arrows were lightly
stuck into the ground. This is a sort of altar, to which each maiden comes
before taking her assigned place in the circle, and lightly touches first the
stone and then the arrows. By this oath she declares her purity. Whenever a
girl approaches the altar there is a stir among the spectators, and sometimes
a rude youth would call out:
“Take care! You will overturn the rock, or pull out the arrows!”
Such a remark makes the girls nervous, and especially one who is not
sure of her composure.

Immediately behind the maidens’ circle is the old women’s or chaperons’
circle. This second circle is almost as interesting to look at as the inner one.
The old women watched every movement of their respective charges with
the utmost concern, having previously instructed them how they should
conduct themselves in any event.
There was never a more gorgeous assembly of the kind than this one. The
day was perfect. The Crees, displaying their characteristic horsemanship,
came in groups; the Assiniboines, with their curious pompadour well
covered with red paint. The various bands of Sioux all carefully observed
the traditional peculiarities of dress and behavior. The attaches of the fort
were fully represented at the entertainment, and it was not unusual to see a
pale-face maiden take part in the feast.
The whole population of the region had assembled, and the maidens
came shyly into the circle. The simple ceremonies observed prior to the
serving of the food were in progress, when among a group of Wahpeton
Sioux young men there was a stir of excitement. All the maidens glanced
nervously toward the scene of the disturbance. Soon a tall youth emerged
from the throng of spectators and advanced toward the circle. Every one of
the chaperons glared at him as if to deter him from his purpose. But with a
steady step he passed them by and approached the maidens’ circle.
At last he stopped behind a pretty Assiniboine maiden of good family and
said:
“I am sorry, but, according to custom, you should not be here.”
The girl arose in confusion, but she soon recovered her self-control.
“What do you mean?” she demanded, indignantly. “Three times you have
come to court me, but each time I have refused to listen to you. I turned my
back upon you. Twice I was with Mashtinna. She can tell the people that
this is true. The third time I had gone for water when you intercepted me
and begged me to stop and listen. I refused because I did not know you. My
chaperon, Makatopawee, knows that I was gone but a few minutes. I never
saw you anywhere else.”
The young man was unable to answer this unmistakable statement of
facts, and it became apparent that he had sought to revenge himself for her
repulse.

“Woo! woo! Carry him out!” was the order of the chief of the Indian
police, and the audacious youth was hurried away into the nearest ravine to
be chastised.
The young woman who had thus established her good name returned to
the circle, and the feast was served. The “maidens’ song” was sung, and
four times they danced in a ring around the altar. Each maid as she departed
once more took her oath to remain pure until she should meet her husband.

IX. MORE LEGENDS

I: A Legend of Devil’s Lake
AFTER the death of Smoky Day, old Weyuha was regarded as the
greatest story-teller among the Wahpeton Sioux.
“Tell me, good Weyuha, a legend of your father’s country,” I said to him
one evening, for I knew the country which is now known as North Dakota
and Southern Manitoba was their ancient hunting-ground. I was prompted
by Uncheedah to make this request, after the old man had eaten in our
lodge.
“Many years ago,” he began, as he passed the pipe to uncle, “we traveled
from the Otter-tail to Minnewakan (Devil’s Lake). At that time the mound
was very distinct where Chotanka lies buried. The people of his immediate
band had taken care to preserve it.
“This mound under which lies the great medicine man is upon the
summit of Minnewakan Chantay, the highest hill in all that region. It is
shaped like an animal’s heart placed on its base, with the apex upward.
“The reason why this hill is called Minnewakan Chantay, or the Heart of
the Mysterious Land, I will now tell you. It has been handed down from
generation to generation, far beyond the memory of our great-grandparents.
It was in Chotanka’s line of descent that these legends were originally kept,
but when he died the stories became everybody’s, and then no one believed
in them. It was told in this way.”
I sat facing him, wholly wrapped in the words of the story-teller, and now
I took a deep breath and settled myself so that I might not disturb him by
the slightest movement while he was reciting his tale. We were taught this
courtesy to our elders, but I was impulsive and sometimes forgot.
“A long time ago,” resumed Weyuha, “the red people were many in
number, and they inhabited all the land from the coldest place to the region
of perpetual summer time. It seemed that they were all of one tongue, and
all were friends.
“All the animals were considered people in those days. The buffalo, the
elk, the antelope, were tribes of considerable importance. The bears were a
smaller band, but they obeyed the mandates of the Great Mystery and were

his favorites, and for this reason they have always known more about the
secrets of medicine. So they were held in much honor. The wolves, too,
were highly regarded at one time. But the buffalo, elk, moose, deer and
antelope were the ruling people.
“These soon became conceited and considered themselves very
important, and thought no one could withstand them. The buffalo made war
upon the smaller tribes, and destroyed many. So one day the Great Mystery
thought it best to change the people in form and in language.
“He made a great tent and kept it dark for ten days. Into this tent he
invited the different bands, and when they came out they were greatly
changed, and some could not talk at all after that. However, there is a sign
language given to all the animals that no man knows except some medicine
men, and they are under a heavy penalty if they should tell it.
“The buffalo came out of the darkened tent the clumsiest of all the
animals. The elk and moose were burdened with their heavy and many-
branched horns, while the antelope and deer were made the most
defenseless of animals, only that they are fleet of foot. The bear and the
wolf were made to prey upon all the others.
“Man was alone then. When the change came, the Great Mystery allowed
him to keep his own shape and language. He was king over all the animals,
but they did not obey him. From that day, man’s spirit may live with the
beasts before he is born a man. He will then know the animal language but
he cannot tell it in human speech. He always retains his sympathy with
them, and can converse with them in dreams.
“I must not forget to tell you that the Great Mystery pitched his tent in
this very region. Some legends say that the Minnewakan Chantay was the
tent itself, which afterward became earth and stones. Many of the animals
were washed and changed in this lake, the Minnewakan, or Mysterious
Water. It is the only inland water we know that is salt. No animal has ever
swum in this lake and lived.”
“Tell me,” I eagerly asked, “is it dangerous to man also?”
“Yes,” he replied, “we think so; and no Indian has ever ventured in that
lake to my knowledge. That is why the lake is called Mysterious,” he
repeated.

“I shall now tell you of Chotanka. He was the greatest of medicine men.
He declared that he was a grizzly bear before he was born in human form.”
Weyuha seemed to become very earnest when he reached this point in his
story. “Listen to Chotanka’s life as a grizzly bear.”
“‘As a bear,’ he used to say, ‘my home was in sight of the Minnewakan
Chantay. I lived with my mother only one winter, and I only saw my father
when I was a baby. Then we lived a little way from the Chantay to the
north, among scattered oak upon a hillside overlooking the Minnewakan.
“‘When I first remember anything, I was playing outside of our home
with a buffalo skull that I had found near by. I saw something that looked
strange. It walked upon two legs, and it carried a crooked stick, and some
red willows with feathers tied to them. It threw one of the willows at me,
and I showed my teeth and retreated within our den.
“‘Just then my father and mother came home with a buffalo calf. They
threw down the dead calf, and ran after the queer thing. He had long hair
upon a round head. His face was round, too. He ran and climbed up into a
small oak tree.
“‘My father and mother shook him down, but not before he had shot
some of his red willows into their sides. Mother was very sick, but she dug
some roots and ate them and she was well again.’ It was thus that Chotanka
was first taught the use of certain roots for curing wounds and sickness,”
Weyuha added.
“‘One day’”—he resumed the grizzly’s story—“‘when I was out hunting
with my mother-my father had gone away and never came back—we found
a buffalo cow with her calf in a ravine. She advised me to follow her
closely, and we crawled along on our knees. All at once mother crouched
down under the grass, and I did the same. We saw some of those queer
beings that we called “two legs,” riding upon big-tail deer (ponies). They
yelled as they rode toward us. Mother growled terribly and rushed upon
them. She caught one, but many more came with their dogs and drove us
into a thicket. They sent the red willows singing after us, and two of them
stuck in mother’s side. When we got away at last she tried to pull them out,
but they hurt her terribly. She pulled them both out at last, but soon after she
lay down and died.
“‘I stayed in the woods alone for two days then I went around the
Minnewakan Chantay on the south side and there made my lonely den.

There I found plenty of hazel nuts, acorns and wild plums. Upon the plains
the teepsinna were abundant, and I saw nothing of my enemies.
“‘One day I found a footprint not unlike my own. I followed it to see who
the stranger might be. Upon the bluffs among the oak groves I discovered a
beautiful young female gathering acorns. She was of a different band from
mine, for she wore a jet black dress.
“‘At first she was disposed to resent my intrusion; but when I told her of
my lonely life she agreed to share it with me. We came back to my home on
the south side of the hill. There we lived happy for a whole year. When the
autumn came again Woshepee, for this was her name, said that she must
make a warm nest for the winter, and I was left alone again.’
“Now,” said Weyuha, “I have come to a part of my story that few people
understand. All the long winter Chotanka slept in his den, and with the early
spring there came a great thunder storm. He was aroused by a frightful
crash that seemed to shake the hills; and lo! a handsome young man stood
at his door. He looked, but was not afraid, for he saw that the stranger
carried none of those red willows with feathered tips. He was unarmed and
smiling.
“‘I come,’ said he, ‘with a challenge to run a race. Whoever wins will be
the hero of his kind, and the defeated must do as the winner says thereafter.
This is a rare honor that I have brought you. The whole world will see the
race. The animal world will shout for you, and the spirits will cheer me on.
You are not a coward, and therefore you will not refuse my challenge.’
“‘No,’ replied Chotanka, after a short hesitation. The young man was
fine-looking, but lightly built.
“‘We shall start from the Chantay, and that will be our goal. Come, let us
go, for the universe is waiting!’ impatiently exclaimed the stranger.
“He passed on in advance, and just then an old, old wrinkled man came
to Chotanka’s door. He leaned forward upon his staff.
“‘My son,’ he said to him, ‘I don’t want to make you a coward, but this
young man is the greatest gambler of the universe. He has powerful
medicine. He gambles for life; be careful! My brothers and I are the only
ones who have ever beaten him. But he is safe, for if he is killed he can
resurrect himself—I tell you he is great medicine.

“‘However, I think that I can save you—listen! He will run behind you
all the way until you are within a short distance of the goal. Then he will
pass you by in a flash, for his name is ZigZag Fire! (lightning). Here is my
medicine.’ So speaking, he gave me a rabbit skin and the gum of a certain
plant. ‘When you come near the goal, rub yourself with the gum, and throw
the rabbit skin between you. He cannot pass you.’
“‘And who are you, grandfather?’ Chotanka inquired.
“‘I am the medicine turtle,’ the old man replied. ‘The gambler is a spirit
from heaven, and those whom he outruns must shortly die. You have heard,
no doubt, that all animals know beforehand when they are to be killed; and
any man who understands these mysteries may also know when he is to
die.’
“The race was announced to the world. The buffalo, elk, wolves and all
the animals came to look on. All the spirits of the air came also to cheer for
their comrade. In the sky the trumpet was sounded—the great medicine
drum was struck. It was the signal for a start. The course was around the
Minnewakan. (That means around the earth or the ocean.) Everywhere the
multitude cheered as the two sped by.
“The young man kept behind Chotanka all the time until they came once
more in sight of the Chantay. Then he felt a slight shock and he threw his
rabbit skin back. The stranger tripped and fell. Chotanka rubbed himself
with the gum, and ran on until he reached the goal. There was a great shout
that echoed over the earth, but in the heavens there was muttering and
grumbling. The referee declared that the winner would live to a good old
age, and Zig-Zag Fire promised to come at his call. He was indeed great
medicine,” Weyuha concluded.
“But you have not told me how Chotanka became a man,” I said.
“One night a beautiful woman came to him in his sleep. She enticed him
into her white teepee to see what she had there. Then she shut the door of
the teepee and Chotanka could not get out. But the woman was kind and
petted him so that he loved to stay in the white teepee. Then it was that he
became a human born. This is a long story, but I think, Ohiyesa, that you
will remember it,” said Weyuha, and so I did.

II. Manitoshaw’s Hunting
IT was in the winter, in the Moon of Difficulty (January). We had eaten
our venison roast for supper, and the embers were burning brightly. Our
teepee was especially cheerful. Uncheedah sat near the entrance, my uncle
and his wife upon the opposite side, while I with my pets occupied the
remaining space.
Wabeda, the dog, lay near the fire in a half doze, watching out of the
corners of his eyes the tame raccoon, which snuggled back against the walls
of the teepee, his shrewd brain, doubtless, concocting some mischief for the
hours of darkness. I had already recited a legend of our people. All agreed
that I had done well. Having been generously praised, I was eager to earn
some more compliments by learning a new one, so I begged my uncle to tell
me a story. Musingly he replied:
“I can give you a Sioux-Cree tradition,” and immediately began:
“Many winters ago, there were six teepees standing on the southern slope
of Moose mountain in the Moon of Wild Cherries (September). The men to
whom these teepees belonged had been attacked by the Sioux while hunting
buffalo, and nearly all killed. Two or three who managed to get home to tell
their sad story were mortally wounded, and died soon afterward. There was
only one old man and several small boys left to hunt and provide for this
unfortunate little band of women and children.
“They lived upon teepsinna (wild turnips) and berries for many days.
They were almost famished for meat. The old man was too feeble to hunt
successfully. One day in this desolate camp a young Cree maiden—for such
they were—declared that she could no longer sit still and see her people
suffer. She took down her dead father’s second bow and quiver full of
arrows, and begged her old grandmother to accompany her to Lake
Wanagiska, where she knew that moose had oftentimes been found. I forgot
to tell you that her name was Manitoshaw.
“This Manitoshaw and her old grandmother, Nawakewee, took each a
pony and went far up into the woods on the side of the mountain. They

pitched their wigwam just out of sight of the lake, and hobbled their ponies.
Then the old woman said to Manitoshaw:
“‘Go, my granddaughter, to the outlet of the Wanagiska, and see if there
are any moose tracks there. When I was a young woman, I came here with
your father’s father, and we pitched our tent near this spot. In the night there
came three different moose. Bring me leaves of the birch and cedar twigs; I
will make medicine for moose,’ she added.
“Manitoshaw obediently disappeared in the woods. It was a grove of
birch and willow, with two good springs. Down below was a marshy place.
Nawakewee had bidden the maiden look for nibbled birch and willow
twigs, for the moose loves to eat them, and to have her arrow ready upon
the bow-string. ‘I have seen this very place many a time,’ added my uncle,
and this simple remark gave to the story an air of reality.
“The Cree maiden went first to the spring, and there found fresh tracks of
the animal she sought. She gathered some cedar berries and chewed them,
and rubbed some of them on her garments so that the moose might not scent
her. The sun was already set, and she felt she must return to Nawakewee.
“Just then Hinhankaga, the hooting owl, gave his doleful night call. The
girl stopped and listened attentively.
“‘I thought it was a lover’s call,’ she whispered to herself. A singular
challenge pealed across the lake. She recognized the alarm call of the loon,
and fancied that the bird might have caught a glimpse of her game.
“Soon she was within a few paces of the temporary lodge of pine boughs
and ferns which the grandmother had constructed. The old woman met her
on the trail.
“‘Ah, my child, you have returned none too soon. I feared you had
ventured too far away; for the Sioux often come to this place to hunt. You
must not expose yourself carelessly on the shore.’
“As the two women lay down to sleep they could hear the ponies munch
the rich grass in an open spot near by. Through the smoke hole of the pine-
bough wigwam Manitoshaw gazed up into the starry sky, and dreamed of
what she would do on the morrow when she should surprise the wily
moose. Her grandmother was already sleeping so noisily that it was enough
to scare away the game. At last the maiden, too, lost herself in sleep.

“Old Nawakewee awoke early. First of all she made a fire and burned
cedar and birch so that the moose might not detect the human smell. Then
she quickly prepared a meal of wild turnips and berries, and awoke the
maiden, who was surprised to see that the sun was already up. She ran
down to the spring and hastily splashed handsful of the cold water in her
face; then she looked for a moment in its mirror-like surface. There was the
reflection of two moose by the open shore and beyond them Manitoshaw
seemed to see a young man standing. In another moment all three had
disappeared.
“‘What is the matter with my eyes? I am not fully awake yet, and I
imagine things. Ugh, it is all in my eyes,’ the maiden repeated to herself.
She hastened back to Nawakewee. The vision was so unexpected and so
startling that she could not believe in its truth, and she said nothing to the
old woman.
“Breakfast eaten, Manitoshaw threw off her robe and appeared in her
scantily cut gown of buckskin with long fringes, and moccasins and
leggings trimmed with quills of the porcupine. Her father’s bow and quiver
were thrown over one shoulder, and the knife dangled from her belt in its
handsome sheath. She ran breathlessly along the shore toward the outlet.
“Way off near the island Medoza the loon swam with his mate,
occasionally uttering a cry of joy. Here and there the playful Hogan, the
trout, sprang gracefully out of the water, in a shower of falling dew. As the
maiden hastened along she scared up Wadawasee, the kingfisher, who
screamed loudly.
“‘Stop, Wadawasee, stop—you will frighten my game!’
“At last she had reached the outlet. She saw at once that the moose had
been there during the night. They had torn up the ground and broken birch
and willow twigs in a most disorderly way.”
“Ah!” I exclaimed, “I wish I had been with Manitoshaw then!”
“Hush, my boy; never interrupt a storyteller.”
I took a stick and began to level off the ashes in front of me, and to draw
a map of the lake, the outlet, the moose and Manitoshaw. Away off to one
side was the solitary wigwam, Nawakewee and the ponies.
“Manitoshaw’s heart was beating so loud that she could not hear
anything,” resumed my uncle. “She took some leaves of the wintergreen

and chewed them to calm herself. She did not forget to throw in passing a
pinch of pulverized tobacco and paint into the spring for Manitou, the spirit.
“Among the twinkling leaves of the birch her eye was caught by a
moving form, and then another. She stood motionless, grasping her heavy
bow. The moose, not suspecting any danger, walked leisurely toward the
spring. One was a large female moose; the other a yearling.
“As they passed Manitoshaw, moving so naturally and looking so
harmless, she almost forgot to let fly an arrow. The mother moose seemed
to look in her direction, but did not see her. They had fairly passed her
hiding-place when she stepped forth and sent a swift arrow into the side of
the larger moose. Both dashed into the thick woods, but it was too late. The
Cree maiden had already loosened her second arrow. Both fell dead before
reaching the shore.”
“Uncle, she must have had a splendid aim, for in the woods the many
little twigs make an arrow bound off to one side,” I interrupted in great
excitement.
“Yes, but you must remember she was very near the moose.”
“It seems to me, then, uncle, that they must have scented her, for you
have told me that they possess the keenest nose of any animal,” I persisted.
“Doubtless the wind was blowing the other way. But, nephew, you must
let me finish my story.
“Overjoyed by her success, the maiden hastened back to Nawakawee, but
she was gone! The ponies were gone, too, and the wigwam of branches had
been demolished. While Manitoshaw stood there, frightened and undecided
what to do, a soft voice came from behind a neighboring thicket:
“‘Manitoshaw! Manitoshaw! I am here!’
“She at once recognized, the voice and found it to be Nawakeewee, who
told a strange story. That morning a canoe had crossed the Wanagiska
carrying two men. They were Sioux. The old grandmother had seen them
coming, and to deceive them she at once pulled down her temporary
wigwam, and drove the ponies off toward home. Then she hid herself in the
bushes near by, for she knew that Manitoshaw must return there.
“‘Come, my granddaughter, we must hasten home by another way,’ cried
the old woman.

“But the maiden said, ‘No, let us go first to my two moose that I killed
this morning and take some meat with us.’
“‘No, no, my child; the Sioux are cruel. They have killed many of our
people. If we stay here they will find us. I fear, I fear them, Manitoshaw!’
“At last the brave maid convinced her grandmother, and the more easily
as she too was hungry for meat. They went to where the big game lay
among the bushes, and began to dress the moose.”
“I think, if I were they, I would hide all day. I would wait until the Sioux
had gone; then I would go back to my moose,” I interrupted for the third
time.
“I will finish the story first; then you may tell us what you would do,”
said my uncle reprovingly.
“The two Sioux were father and son. They too had come to the lake for
moose; but as the game usually retreated to the island, Chatansapa had
landed his son Kangiska to hunt them on the shore while he returned in his
canoe to intercept their flight. The young man sped along the sandy beach
and soon discovered their tracks. He followed them up and found blood on
the trail. This astonished him. Cautiously he followed on until he found
them both lying dead. He examined them and found that in each moose
there was a single Cree arrow. Wishing to surprise the hunter if possible,
Kangiska lay hidden in the bushes.
“After a little while the two women returned to the spot. They passed him
as close as the moose had passed the maiden in the morning. He saw at
once that the maiden had arrows in her quiver like those that had slain the
big moose. He lay still.
“Kangiska looked upon the beautiful Cree maiden and loved her. Finally
he forgot himself and made a slight motion. Manitoshaw’s quick eye caught
the little stir among the bushes, but she immediately looked the other way
and Kangiska believed that she had not seen anything, At last her eyes met
his, and something told both that all was well. Then the maiden smiled, and
the young man could not remain still any longer. He arose suddenly and the
old woman nearly fainted from fright. But Manitoshaw said:
“‘Fear not, grandmother; we are two and he is only one.’
“While the two women continued to cut up the meat, Kangiska made a
fire by rubbing cedar chips together, and they all ate of the moose meat.

Then the old woman finished her work, while the young people sat down
upon a log in the shade, and told each other all their minds.
“Kangiska declared by signs that he would go home with Manitoshaw to
the Cree camp, for he loved her. They went home, and the young man
hunted for the unfortunate Cree band during the rest of his life.
“His father waited a long time on the island and afterward searched the
shore, but never saw him again. He supposed that those footprints he saw
were made by Crees who had killed his son.”
“Is that story true, uncle?” I asked eagerly.
“‘Yes, the facts are well known. There are some Sioux mixed bloods
among the Crees to this day who are descendants of Kangiska.”

X. INDIAN LIFE AND ADVENTURE

I: Life in the Woods
THE month of September recalls to every Indian’s mind the season of the
fall hunt. I remember one such expedition which is typical of many. Our
party appeared on the northwestern side of Turtle mountain; for we had
been hunting buffaloes all summer, in the region of the Mouse river,
between that mountain and the upper Missouri.
As our cone-shaped teepees rose in clusters along the outskirts of the
heavy forest that clothes the sloping side of the mountain, the scene below
was gratifying to a savage eye. The rolling yellow plains were checkered
with herds of buffaloes. Along the banks of the streams that ran down from
the mountains were also many elk, which usually appear at morning and
evening, and disappear into the forest during the warmer part of the day.
Deer, too, were plenty, and the brooks were alive with trout. Here and there
the streams were dammed by the industrious beaver.
In the interior of the forest there were lakes with many islands, where
moose, elk, deer and bears were abundant. The water-fowl were wont to
gather here in great numbers, among them the crane, the swan, the loon, and
many of the smaller kinds. The forest also was filled with a great variety of
birds. Here the partridge drummed his loudest, while the whippoorwill sang
with spirit, and the hooting owl reigned in the night.
To me, as a boy, this wilderness was a paradise. It was a land of plenty.
To be sure, we did not have any of the luxuries of civilization, but we had
every convenience and opportunity and luxury of Nature. We had also the
gift of enjoying our good fortune, whatever dangers might lurk about us;
and the truth is that we lived in blessed ignorance of any life that was better
than our own.
As soon as hunting in the woods began, the customs regulating it were
established. The council teepee no longer existed. A hunting bonfire was
kindled every morning at day-break, at which each brave must appear and
report. The man who failed to do this before the party set out on the day’s
hunt was harassed by ridicule. As a rule, the hunters started before sunrise,

and the brave who was announced throughout the camp as the first one to
return with a deer on his back, was a man to be envied.
The legend-teller, old Smoky Day, was chosen herald of the camp, and it
was he who made the announcements. After supper was ended, we heard
his powerful voice resound among the teepees in the forest. He would then
name a man to kindle the bonfire the next morning. His suit of fringed
buckskin set off his splendid physique to advantage.
Scarcely had the men disappeared in the woods each morning than all the
boys sallied forth, apparently engrossed in their games and sports, but in
reality competing actively with one another in quickness of observation. As
the day advanced, they all kept the sharpest possible lookout. Suddenly
there would come the shrill “Woo-coohoo!” at the top of a boy’s voice,
announcing the bringing in of a deer. Immediately all the other boys took up
the cry, each one bent on getting ahead of the rest. Now we all saw the
brave Wacoota fairly bent over by his burden, a large deer which he carried
on his shoulders. His fringed buckskin shirt was besprinkled with blood. He
threw down the deer at the door of his wife’s mother’s home, according to
custom, and then walked proudly to his own. At the door of his father’s
teepee he stood for a moment straight as a pine-tree, and then entered.
When a bear was brought in, a hundred or more of these urchins were
wont to make the woods resound with their voices: “Wah! wah! wah! Wah!
wah! wah! The brave White Rabbit brings a bear! Wah! wah! wah!”
All day these sing-song cheers were kept up, as the game was brought in.
At last, toward the close of the afternoon, all the hunters had returned, and
happiness and contentment reigned absolute, in a fashion which I have
never observed among the white people, even in the best of circumstances.
The men were lounging and smoking; the women actively engaged in the
preparation of the evening meal, and the care of the meat. The choicest of
the game was cooked and offered to the Great Mystery, with all the
accompanying ceremonies. This we called the “medicine feast.” Even the
women, as they lowered the boiling pot, or the fragrant roast of venison
ready to serve, would first whisper: “Great Mystery, do thou partake of this
venison, and still be gracious!” This was the commonly said “grace.”
Everything went smoothly with us, on this occasion, when we first
entered the woods. Nothing was wanting to our old way of living. The
killing of deer and elk and moose had to be stopped for a time, since meat

was so abundant that we had no use for them any longer. Only the hunting
for pelts, such as those of the bear, beaver, marten, and otter was continued.
But whenever we lived in blessed abundance, our braves were wont to turn
their thoughts to other occupations—especially the hot-blooded youths
whose ambition it was to do something noteworthy.
At just such moments as this there are always a number of priests in
readiness, whose vocation it is to see into the future, and each of whom
consults his particular interpreter of the Great Mystery. (This ceremony is
called by the white people “making medicine.”) To the priests the youthful
braves hint their impatience for the war-path. Soon comes the desired dream
or prophecy or vision to favor their departure.
Our young men presently received their sign, and for a few days all was
hurry and excitement. On the appointed morning we heard the songs of the
warriors and the wailing of the women, by which they bade adieu to each
other, and the eligible braves, headed by an experienced man—old Hotanka
or Loud-Voiced Raven—set out for the Gros Ventre country.
Our older heads, to be sure, had expressed some disapproval of the
undertaking, for the country in which we were roaming was not our own,
and we were likely at any time to be taken to task by its rightful owners.
The plain truth of the matter was that we were intruders. Hence the more
thoughtful among us preferred to be at home, and to achieve what renown
they could get by defending their homes and families. The young men,
however, were so eager for action and excitement that they must needs go
off in search of it.
From the early morning when these braves left us, led by the old war-
priest, Loud-Voiced Raven, the anxious mothers, sisters and sweethearts
counted the days. Old Smoky Day would occasionally get up early in the
morning, and sing a “strong-heart” song for his absent grandson. I still seem
to hear the hoarse, cracked voice of the ancient singer as it resounded
among the woods. For a long time our roving community enjoyed unbroken
peace, and we were spared any trouble or disturbance. Our hunters often
brought in a deer or elk or bear for fresh meat. The beautiful lakes furnished
us with fish and wild-fowl for variety. Their placid waters, as the autumn
advanced, reflected the variegated colors of the changing foliage.
It is my recollection that we were at this time encamped in the vicinity of
the “Turtle Mountain’s Heart.” It is to the highest cone-shaped peak that the

Indians aptly give this appellation. Our camping-ground for two months
was within a short distance of the peak, and the men made it a point to often
send one of their number to the top. It was understood between them and
the war party that we were to remain near this spot; and on their return trip
the latter were to give the “smoke sign,” which we would answer from the
top of the hill.
One day, as we were camping on the shore of a large lake with several
islands, signs of moose were discovered, and the men went off to them on
rafts, carrying their flint-lock guns in anticipation of finding two or three of
the animals. We little fellows, as usual, were playing down by the sandy
shore, when we spied what seemed like the root of a great tree floating
toward us. But on a closer scrutiny we discovered our error. It was the head
of a huge moose, swimming for his life! Fortunately for him, none of the
men had remained at home.
According to our habit, we little urchins disappeared in an instant, like
young prairie chickens, in the long grass. I was not more than eight years
old, yet I tested the strength of my bowstring and adjusted my sharpest and
best arrow for immediate service. My heart leaped violently as the homely
but imposing animal neared the shore. I was undecided for a moment
whether I would not leave my hiding-place and give a war-whoop as soon
as he touched the sand. Then I thought I would keep still and let him have
my boy weapon; and the only regret that I had was that he would, in all
probability, take it with him, and I should be minus one good arrow.
“Still,” I thought, “I shall claim to be the smallest boy whose arrow was
ever carried away by a moose.” That was enough. I gathered myself into a
bunch, all ready to spring. As the long-legged beast pulled himself dripping
out of the water, and shook off the drops from his long hair, I sprang to my
feet. I felt some of the water in my face! I gave him my sharpest arrow with
all the force I could master, right among the floating ribs. Then I uttered my
warwhoop.
The moose did not seem to mind the miniature weapon, but he was very
much frightened by our shrill yelling. He took to his long legs, and in a
minute was out of sight.
The leaves had now begun to fall, and the heavy frosts made the nights
very cold. We were forced to realize that the short summer of that region
had said adieu! Still we were gay and lighthearted, for we had plenty of

provisions, and no misfortune had yet overtaken us in our wanderings over
the country for nearly three months.
One day old Smoky Day returned from the daily hunt with an alarm. He
had seen a sign-a “smoke sign.” This had not appeared in the quarter that
they were anxiously watching—it came from the east. After a long
consultation among the men, it was concluded from the nature and duration
of the smoke that it proceeded from an accidental fire. It was further
surmised that the fire was not made by Sioux, since it was out of their
country, but by a war-party of Ojibways, who were accustomed to use
matches when lighting their pipes, and to throw them carelessly away. It
was thought that a little time had been spent in an attempt to put it out.
The council decreed that a strict look-out should be established in behalf
of our party. Every day a scout was appointed to reconnoitre in the direction
of the smoke. It was agreed that no gun should be fired for twelve days. All
our signals were freshly rehearsed among the men. The women and old men
went so far as to dig little convenient holes around their lodges, for defense
in case of a sudden attack. And yet an Ojibway scout would not have
suspected, from the ordinary appearance of the camp, that the Sioux had
become aware of their neighborhood! Scouts were stationed just outside of
the village at night. They had been so trained as to rival an owl or a cat in
their ability to see in the dark.
The twelve days passed by, however, without bringing any evidence of
the nearness of the supposed Ojibway war-party, and the “lookout”
established for purposes of protection was abandoned. Soon after this, one
morning at dawn, we were aroused by the sound of the unwelcome
warwhoop. Although only a child, I sprang up and was about to rush out, as
I had been taught to do; but my good grandmother pulled me down, and
gave me a sign to lay flat on the ground. I sharpened my ears and lay still.
All was quiet in camp, but at some little distance from us there was a
lively encounter. I could distinctly hear the old herald, shouting and yelling
in exasperation. “Whoo! whoo!” was the signal of distress, and I could
almost hear the pulse of my own blood-vessels.
Closer and closer the struggle came, and still the women appeared to
grow more and more calm. At last a tremendous charge by the Sioux put the
enemy to flight; there was a burst of yelling; alas! my friend and teacher,

old Smoky Day, was silent. He had been pierced to the heart by an arrow
from the Ojibways.
Although successful, we had lost two of our men, Smoky Day and White
Crane, and this incident, although hardly unexpected, darkened our peaceful
sky. The camp was filled with songs of victory, mingled with the wailing of
the relatives of the slain. The mothers of the youths who were absent on the
war-path could no longer conceal their anxiety.
One frosty morning—for it was then near the end of October—the weird
song of a solitary brave was heard. In an instant the camp was thrown into
indescribable confusion. The meaning of this was clear as day to everybody
—all of our war-party were killed, save the one whose mournful song
announced the fate of his companions. The lonely warrior was Bald Eagle.
The village was convulsed with grief; for in sorrow, as in joy, every
Indian shares with all the others. The old women stood still, wherever they
might be, and wailed dismally, at intervals chanting the praises of the
departed warriors. The wives went a little way from their teepees and there
audibly mourned; but the young maidens wandered further away from the
camp, where no one could witness their grief. The old men joined in the
crying and singing. To all appearances the most unmoved of all were the
warriors, whose tears must be poured forth in the country of the enemy to
embitter their vengeance. These sat silently within their lodges, and strove
to conceal their feelings behind a stoical countenance; but they would
probably have failed had not the soothing weed come to their relief.
The first sad shock over, then came the change of habiliments. In savage
usage, the outward expression of mourning surpasses that of civilization.
The Indian mourner gives up all his good clothing, and contents himself
with scanty and miserable garments. Blankets are cut in two, and the hair is
cropped short. Often a devoted mother would scarify her arms or legs; a
sister or a young wife would cut off all her beautiful hair and disfigure
herself by undergoing hardships. Fathers and brothers blackened their faces,
and wore only the shabbiest garments. Such was the spectacle that our
people presented when the bright autumn was gone and the cold shadow of
winter and misfortune had fallen upon us. “We must suffer,” said they
—“the Great Mystery is offended.”

II. A Winter Camp
WHEN I was about twelve years old we wintered upon the Mouse river,
west of Turtle mountain. It was one of the coldest winters I ever knew, and
was so regarded by the old men of the tribe. The summer before there had
been plenty of buffalo upon that side of the Missouri, and our people had
made many packs of dried buffalo meat and cached them in different places,
so that they could get them in case of need. There were many black-tailed
deer and elk along the river, and grizzlies were to be found in the open
country. Apparently there was no danger of starvation, so our people
thought to winter there; but it proved to be a hard winter.
There was a great snow-fall, and the cold was intense. The snow was too
deep for hunting, and the main body of the buffalo had crossed the
Missouri, where it was too far to go after them. But there were some
smaller herds of the animals scattered about in our vicinity, therefore there
was still fresh meat to be had, but it was not secured without a great deal of
difficulty.
No ponies could be used. The men hunted on snow-shoes until after the
Moon of Sore Eyes (March), when after a heavy thaw a crust was formed
on the snow which would scarcely hold a man. It was then that our people
hunted buffalo with dogs—an unusual expedient.
Sleds were made of buffalo ribs and hickory saplings, the runners bound
with rawhide with the hair side down. These slipped smoothly over the icy
crust. Only small men rode on the sleds. When buffalo were reported by the
hunting-scouts, everybody had his dog team ready. All went under orders
from the police, and approached the herd under cover until they came
within charging distance.
The men had their bows and arrows, and a few had guns. The huge
animals could not run fast in the deep snow. They all followed a leader,
trampling out a narrow path. The dogs with their drivers soon caught up
with them on each side, and the hunters brought many of them down.
I remember when the party returned, late in the night. The men came in
single file, well loaded, and each dog following his master with an equally

heavy load. Both men and animals were white with frost.
We boys had waited impatiently for their arrival. As soon as we spied
them coming a buffalo hunting whistle was started, and every urchin in the
village added his voice to the weird sound, while the dogs who had been
left at home joined with us in the chorus. The men, wearing their buffalo
moccasins with the hair inside and robes of the same, came home hungry
and exhausted.
It is often supposed that the dog in the Indian camp is a useless member
of society, but it is not so in the wild life. We found him one of the most
useful of domestic animals, especially in an emergency.
While at this camp a ludicrous incident occurred that is still told about
the camp-fires of the Sioux. One day the men were hunting on snow-shoes,
and contrived to get within a short distance of the buffalo before they made
the attack. It was impossible to run fast, but the huge animals were equally
unable to get away. Many were killed. Just as the herd reached an open
plain one of the buffaloes stopped and finally lay down. Three of the men
who were pursuing him shortly came up. The animal was severely
wounded, but not dead.
“I shall crawl up to him from behind and stab him,” said Wamedee; “we
cannot wait here for him to die.” The others agreed. Wamedee was not
considered especially brave; but he took out his knife and held it between
his teeth. He then approached the buffalo from behind and suddenly jumped
astride his back.
The animal was dreadfully frightened and struggled to his feet.
Wamedee’s knife fell to the ground, but he held on by the long shaggy hair.
He had a bad seat, for he was upon the buffalo’s hump. There was no
chance to jump off; he had to stay on as well as he could.
“Hurry! hurry! shoot! shoot!” he screamed, as the creature plunged and
kicked madly in the deep snow. Wamedee’s face looked deathly, they said;
but his two friends could not help laughing. He was still calling upon them
to shoot, but when the others took aim he would cry: “Don’t shoot! don’t
shoot! you will kill me!” At last the animal fell down with him; but
Wamedee’s two friends also fell down exhausted with laughter. He was
ridiculed as a coward thereafter.
It was on this very hunt that the chief Mato was killed by a buffalo. It
happened in this way. He had wounded the animal, but not fatally; so he

shot two more arrows at him from a distance. Then the buffalo became
desperate and charged upon him. In his flight Mato was tripped by sticking
one of his snow-shoes into a snowdrift, from which he could not extricate
himself in time. The bull gored him to death. The creek upon which this
happened is now called Mato creek.
A little way from our camp there was a log village of French Canadian
half-breeds, but the two villages did not intermingle. About the Moon of
Difficulty (January) we were initiated into some of the peculiar customs of
our neighbors. In the middle of the night there was a firing of guns
throughout their village. Some of the people thought they had been
attacked, and went over to assist them, but to their surprise they were told
that this was the celebration of the birth of the new year!
Our men were treated to minnewakan or “spirit water,” and they came
home crazy and foolish. They talked loud and sang all the rest of the night.
Finally our head chief ordered his young men to tie these men up and put
them in a lodge by themselves. He gave orders to untie them “when the evil
spirit had gone away.”
During the next day all our people were invited to attend the half-breeds’
dance. I never knew before that a new year begins in mid-winter. We had
always counted that the year ends when the winter ends, and a new year
begins with the new life in the springtime.
I was now taken for the first time to a white man’s dance in a log house. I
thought it was the dizziest thing I ever saw. One man sat in a corner, sawing
away at a stringed board, and all the while he was stamping the floor with
his foot and giving an occasional shout. When he called out, the dancers
seemed to move faster.
The men danced with women—something that we Indians never do—and
when the man in the corner shouted they would swing the women around. It
looked very rude to me, as I stood outside with the other boys and peeped
through the chinks in the logs. At one time a young man and woman facing
each other danced in the middle of the floor. I thought they would surely
wear their moccasins out against the rough boards; but after a few minutes
they were relieved by another couple.
Then an old man with long curly hair and a fox-skin cap danced alone in
the middle of the room, slapping the floor with his moccasined foot in a
lightning fashion that I have never seen equalled. He seemed to be a leader

among them. When he had finished, the old man invited our principal chief
into the middle of the floor, and after the Indian had given a great whoop,
the two drank in company. After this, there was so much drinking and loud
talking among the men, that it was thought best to send us children back to
the camp.
It was at this place that we found many sand boulders like a big “white
man’s house.” There were holes in them like rooms, and we played in these
cave-like holes. One day, in the midst of our game, we found the skeleton of
a great bear. Evidently he had been wounded and came there to die, for
there were several arrows on the floor of the cave.
The most exciting event of this year was the attack that the Gros Ventres
made upon us just as we moved our camp upon the table land back of the
river in the spring. We had plenty of meat then and everybody was happy.
The grass was beginning to appear and the ponies to grow fat.
One night there was a war dance. A few of our young men had planned to
invade the Gros Ventres country, but it seemed that they too had been
thinking of us. Everybody was interested in the proposed war party.
“Uncle, are you going too?” I eagerly asked him.
“No,” he replied, with a long sigh. “It is the worst time of year to go on
the war-path. We shall have plenty of fighting this summer, as we are going
to trench upon their territory in our hunts,” he added.
The night was clear and pleasant. The war drum was answered by the
howls of coyotes on the opposite side of the Mouse river. I was in the
throng, watching the braves who were about to go out in search of glory. “I
wish I were old enough; I would surely go with this party,” I thought. My
friend Tatanka was to go. He was several years older than I, and a hero in
my eyes. I watched him as he danced with the rest until nearly midnight.
Then I came back to our teepee and rolled myself in my buffalo robe and
was soon lost in sleep.
Suddenly I was aroused by loud war cries. “‘Woo! woo! hay-ay! hay-ay!
U we do! U we do!’” I jumped upon my feet, snatched my bow and arrows
and rushed out of the teepee, frantically yelling as I went.
“Stop! stop!” screamed Uncheedah, and caught me by my long hair.
By this time the Gros Ventres had encircled our camp, sending volleys of
arrows and bullets into our midst. The women were digging ditches in

which to put their children.
My uncle was foremost in the battle. The Sioux bravely withstood the
assault, although several of our men had already fallen. Many of the enemy
were killed in the field around our teepees. The Sioux at last got their
ponies and made a counter charge, led by Oyemakasan (my uncle). They
cut the Gros Ventre party in two, and drove them off.
My friend Tatanka was killed. I took one of his eagle feathers, thinking I
would wear it the first time that I ever went upon the war-path. I thought I
would give anything for the opportunity to go against the Gros Ventres,
because they killed my friend. The war songs, the wailing for the dead, the
howling of the dogs was intolerable to me. Soon after this we broke up our
camp and departed for new scenes.

III. Wild Harvests
WHEN our people lived in Minnesota, a good part of their natural
subsistence was furnished by the wild rice, which grew abundantly in all of
that region. Around the shores and all over some of the innumerable lakes
of the “Land of Sky-blue Water” was this wild cereal found. Indeed, some
of the watery fields in those days might be compared in extent and
fruitfulness with the fields of wheat on Minnesota’s magnificent farms to-
day.
The wild rice harvesters came in groups of fifteen to twenty families to a
lake, depending upon the size of the harvest. Some of the Indians hunted
buffalo upon the prairie at this season, but there were more who preferred to
go to the lakes to gather wild rice, fish, gather berries and hunt the deer.
There was an abundance of water-fowls among the grain; and really no
season of the year was happier than this.
The camping-ground was usually an attractive spot, with shade and cool
breezes off the water. The people, while they pitched their teepees upon the
heights, if possible, for the sake of a good outlook, actually lived in their
canoes upon the placid waters. The happiest of all, perhaps, were the young
maidens, who were all day long in their canoes, in twos or threes, and when
tired of gathering the wild cereal, would sit in the boats doing their needle-
work.
These maidens learned to imitate the calls of the different water-fowls as
a sort of signal to the members of a group. Even the old women and the
boys adopted signals, so that while the population of the village was lost to
sight in a thick field of wild rice, a meeting could be arranged without
calling any one by his or her own name. It was a great convenience for
those young men who sought opportunity to meet certain maidens, for there
were many canoe paths through the rice.
August is the harvest month. There were many preliminary feasts of fish,
ducks and venison, and offerings in honor of the “Water Chief,” so that
there might not be any drowning accident during the harvest. The
preparation consisted of a series of feasts and offerings for many days,

while women and men were making birch canoes, for nearly every member
of the family must be provided with one for this occasion. The blueberry
and huckleberry-picking also preceded the rice-gathering.
There were social events which enlivened the camp of the harvesters;
such as maidens’ feasts, dances and a canoe regatta or two, in which not
only the men were participants, but women and young girls as well.
On the appointed day all the canoes were carried to the shore and placed
upon the water with prayer and propitiatory offerings. Each family took
possession of the allotted field, and tied all the grain in bundles of
convenient size, allowing it to stand for a few days. Then they again entered
the lake, assigning two persons to each canoe. One manipulated the paddle,
while the foremost one gently drew the heads of each bundle toward him
and gave it a few strokes with a light rod. This caused the rice to fall into
the bottom of the craft. The field was traversed in this manner back and
forth until finished.
This was the pleasantest and easiest part of the harvest toil. The real work
was when they prepared the rice for use. First of all, it must be made
perfectly dry. They would spread it upon buffalo robes and mats, and
sometimes upon layers of coarse swamp grass, and dry it in the sun. If the
time was short, they would make a scaffold and spread upon it a certain
thickness of the green grass and afterward the rice. Under this a fire was
made, taking care that the grass did not catch fire.
When all the rice is gathered and dried, the hulling begins. A round hole
is dug about two feet deep and the same in diameter. Then the rice is heated
over a fire-place, and emptied into the hole while it is hot. A young man,
having washed his feet and put on a new pair of moccasins, treads upon it
until all is hulled. The women then pour it upon a robe and begin to shake it
so that the chaff will be separated by the wind. Some of the rice is browned
before being hulled.
During the hulling time there were prizes offered to the young men who
can hull quickest and best. There were sometimes from twenty to fifty
youths dancing with their feet in these holes.
Pretty moccasins were brought by shy maidens to the youths of their
choice, asking them to hull rice. There were daily entertainments which
deserved some such name as “hulling bee”—at any rate, we all enjoyed
them hugely. The girls brought with them plenty of good things to eat.

When all the rice was prepared for the table, the matter of storing it must
be determined. Caches were dug by each family in a concealed spot, and
carefully lined with dry grass and bark. Here they left their surplus stores
for a time of need. Our people were very ingenious in covering up all traces
of the hidden food. A common trick was to build a fire on top of the mound.
As much of the rice as could be carried conveniently was packed in par-
fleches, or cases made of rawhide, and brought back with us to our village.
After all, the wild Indians could not be justly termed improvident, when
their manner of life is taken into consideration. They let nothing go to
waste, and labored incessantly during the summer and fall to lay up
provision for the inclement season. Berries of all kinds were industriously
gathered, and dried in the sun. Even the wild cherries were pounded up,
stones and all, made into small cakes and dried for use in soups and for
mixing with the pounded jerked meat and fat to form a much-prized Indian
delicacy.
Out on the prairie in July and August the women were wont to dig
teepsinna with sharpened sticks, and many a bag full was dried and put
away. This teepsinna is the root of a certain plant growing mostly upon high
sandy soil. It is starchy but solid, with a sweetish taste, and is very
fattening. The fully grown teepsinna is two or three inches long, and has a
dark-brown bark not unlike the bark of a young tree. It can be eaten raw or
stewed, and is always kept in a dried state, except when it is first dug.
There was another root that our people gathered in small quantities. It is a
wild sweet potato, found in bottom lands or river beds.
The primitive housekeeper exerted herself much to secure a variety of
appetizing dishes; she even robbed the field mouse and the muskrat to
accomplish her end. The tiny mouse gathers for her winter use several
excellent kinds of food. Among these is a wild bean which equals in flavor
any domestic bean that I have ever tasted. Her storehouse is usually under a
peculiar mound, which the untrained eye would be unable to distinguish
from an ant-hill. There are many pockets underneath, into which she
industriously gathers the harvest of the summer.
She is fortunate if the quick eye of a native woman does not detect her
hiding-place. About the month of September, while traveling over the
prairie, a woman is occasionally observed to halt suddenly and waltz
around a suspected mound. Finally the pressure of her heel causes a place to

give way, and she settles contentedly down to rob the poor mouse of the
fruits of her labor.
The different kinds of beans are put away in different pockets, but it is
the oomenechah she wants. The field mouse loves this savory vegetable, for
she always gathers it more than any other. There is also some of the white
star-like manakcahkcah, the root of the wild lily. This is a good medicine
and good to eat.
When our people were gathering the wild rice, they always watched for
another plant that grows in the muddy bottom of lakes and ponds. It is a
white bulb about the size of an ordinary onion. This is stored away by the
muskrats in their houses by the waterside, and there is often a bushel or
more of the psinchinchah to be found within. It seemed as if everybody was
good to the wild Indian; at least we thought so then.
I have referred to the opportunities for courting upon the wild rice fields.
Indian courtship is very peculiar in many respects; but when you study their
daily life you will see the philosophy of their etiquette of love-making.
There was no parlor courtship; the life was largely out-of-doors, which was
very favorable to the young men
In a nomadic life where the female members of the family have entire
control of domestic affairs, the work is divided among them all. Very often
the bringing of the wood and water devolves upon the young maids, and the
spring or the woods become the battle-ground of love’s warfare. The nearest
water may be some distance from the camp, which is all the better.
Sometimes, too, there is no wood to be had; and in that case, one would see
the young women scattered all over the prairie, gathering buffalo chips for
fuel.
This is the way the red men go about to induce the aboriginal maids to
listen to their suit. As soon as the youth has returned from the war-path or
the chase, he puts on his porcupine-quill embroidered moccasins and
leggings, and folds his best robe about him. He brushes his long, glossy hair
with a brush made from the tail of the porcupine, perfumes it with scented
grass or leaves, then arranges it in two plaits with an otter skin or some
other ornament. If he is a warrior, he adds an eagle feather or two.
If he chooses to ride, he takes his best pony. He jumps upon its bare back,
simply throwing a part of his robe under him to serve as a saddle, and
holding the end of a lariat tied about the animal’s neck. He guides him

altogether by the motions of his body. These wily ponies seem to enter into
the spirit of the occasion, and very often capture the eyes of the maid by
their graceful movements, in perfect obedience to their master.
The general custom is for the young men to pull their robes over their
heads, leaving only a slit to look through. Sometimes the same is done by
the maiden—especially in public courtship.
He approaches the girl while she is coming from the spring. He takes up
his position directly in her path. If she is in a hurry or does not care to stop,
she goes around him; but if she is willing to stop and listen she puts down
on the ground the vessel of water she is carrying.
Very often at the first meeting the maiden does not know who her lover
is. He does not introduce himself immediately, but waits until a second
meeting. Sometimes she does not see his face at all; and then she will try to
find out who he is and what he looks like before they meet again. If he is
not a desirable suitor, she will go with her chaperon and end the affair there.
There are times when maidens go in twos, and then there must be two
young men to meet them.
There is some courtship in the night time; either in the early part of the
evening, on the outskirts of dances and other public affairs, or after
everybody is supposed to be asleep. This is the secret courtship. The youth
may pull up the tentpins just back of his sweetheart and speak with her
during the night. He must be a smart young man to do that undetected, for
the grandmother, her chaperon, is usually “all ears.”
Elopements are common. There are many reasons for a girl or a youth to
defer their wedding. It may be from personal pride of one or both. The well-
born are married publicly, and many things are given away in their honor.
The maiden may desire to attend a certain number of maidens’ feasts before
marrying. The youth may be poor, or he may wish to achieve another honor
before surrendering to a woman.
Sometimes a youth is so infatuated with a maiden that he will follow her
to any part of the country, even after their respective bands have separated
for the season. I knew of one such case. Patah Tankah had courted a distant
relative of my uncle for a long time. There seemed to be some objection to
him on the part of the girl’s parents, although the girl herself was willing.

The large camp had been broken up for the fall hunt, and my uncle’s
band went one way, while the young man’s family went in the other
direction. After three days’ travelling, we came to a good hunting-ground,
and made camp. One evening somebody saw the young man. He had been
following his sweetheart and sleeping out-of-doors all that time, although
the nights were already frosty and cold. He met her every day in secret and
she brought him food, but he would not come near the teepee. Finally her
people yielded, and she went back with him to his band.
When we lived our natural life, there was much singing of war songs,
medicine, hunting and love songs. Sometimes there were few words or
none, but everything was understood by the inflection. From this I have
often thought that there must be a language of dumb beasts.
The crude musical instrument of the Sioux, the flute, was made to appeal
to the susceptible ears of the maidens late into the night. There comes to me
now the picture of two young men with their robes over their heads, and
only a portion of the hand-made and carved chotanka, the flute, protruding
from its folds. I can see all the maidens slyly turn their heads to listen. Now
I hear one of the youths begin to sing a plaintive serenade as in days gone
by:

“Hay-ay-ay! Hay-ay-ay! a-ahay-ay!” (This
“Listen! you will hear of him—
Maiden, you will hear of him—
Listen! he will shortly go

Wasula feels that she must come out, but she has no good excuse, so she
stirs up the embers of the fire and causes an unnecessary smoke in the
teepee. Then she has an excuse to come out and fix up the tent flaps. She
takes a long time to adjust these pointed ears of the teepee, with their long
poles, for the wind seems to be unsettled.
Finally Chotanka ceases to be heard. In a moment a young man appears
ghost-like at the maiden’s side.
“So it is you, is it?” she asks.
“Is your grandmother in?” he inquires.
“What a brave man you are, to fear an old woman! We are free; the
country is wide. We can go away, and come back when the storm is over.”

“Ho,” he replies. “It is not that I fear her, or the consequences of an
elopement. I fear nothing except that we may be separated!”
The girl goes into the lodge for a moment, then slips out once more.
“Now,” she exclaims, “to the wood or the prairie! I am yours!” They
disappear in the darkness.

IV. A Meeting on the Plains
WE were encamped at one time on the Souris or Mouse river, a tributary
of the Assiniboine. The buffaloes were still plenty; hence we were living on
the “fat of the land.” One afternoon a scout came in with the announcement
that a body of United States troops was approaching! This report, of course,
caused much uneasiness among our people.
A council was held immediately, in the course of which the scout was put
through a rigid examination. Before a decision had been reached, another
scout came in from the field. He declared that the moving train reported as a
body of troops was in reality a train of Canadian carts.
The two reports differed so widely that it was deemed wise to send out
more runners to observe this moving body closely, and ascertain definitely
its character. These soon returned with the positive information that the
Canadians were at hand, “for,” said they, “there are no bright metals in the
moving train to send forth flashes of light. The separate bodies are short,
like carts with ponies, and not like the long, four-wheeled wagon drawn by
four or six mules, that the soldiers use. They are not buffaloes, and they
cannot be mounted troops, with pack-mules, because the individual bodies
are too long for that. Besides, the soldiers usually have their chief, with his
guards, leading the train; and the little chiefs are also separated from the
main body and ride at one side!”
From these observations it was concluded that we were soon to meet with
the bois brules, as the French call their mixed-bloods, presumably from the
color of their complexions. Some say that they are named from the “burned
forests” which, as wood-cutters, they are accustomed to leave behind them.
Two or three hours later, at about sunset, our ears began to distinguish the
peculiar music that always accompanied a moving train of their carts. It is
like the grunting and squealing of many animals, and is due to the fact that
the wheels and all other parts of these vehicles are made of wood. Our dogs
gleefully augmented the volume of inharmonious sound.
They stopped a little way from our camp, upon a grassy plain, and the
ponies were made to wheel their clumsy burdens into a perfect circle, the

shafts being turned inward. Thus was formed a sort of barricade—quite a
usual and necessary precaution in their nomadic and adventurous life.
Within this circle the tents were pitched, and many cheerful fires were soon
kindled. The garcons were hurriedly driving the ponies to water, with much
cracking of whips and outbursting of impatient oaths.
Our chief and his principal warriors briefly conferred with the strangers,
and it was understood by both parties that no thought of hostilities lurked in
the minds of either.
After having observed the exchange of presents that always follows a
“peace council,” there were friendly and hospitable feasts in both camps.
The bois brules had been long away from any fort or trading-post, and it so
happened that their inevitable whiskey keg was almost empty. They had
diluted the few gills remaining with several large kettles full of water. In
order to have any sort of offensive taste, it was necessary to add cayenne
pepper and a little gentian.
Our men were treated to this concoction; and seeing that two or three of
the half-breeds pretended to become intoxicated, our braves followed their
example. They made night intolerable with their shouts and singing until
past midnight, when gradually all disturbance ceased, and both camps
appeared to be wrapped in deep slumber.
Suddenly the loud report of a gun stirred the sleepers. Many more reports
were heard in quick succession, all coming from the camp of the bois
brules. Every man among the Sioux sprang to his feet, weapon in hand, and
many ran towards their ponies. But there was one significant point about the
untimely firing of the guns—they were all directed heavenward! One of our
old men, who understood better than any one else the manners of the half-
breeds, thus proclaimed at the top of his voice:
“Let the people sleep! This that we have heard is the announcement of a
boy’s advent into the world! It is their custom to introduce with gunpowder
a new-born boy!”
Again quiet was restored in the neighboring camps, and for a time the
night reigned undisturbed. But scarcely had we fallen into a sound sleep
when we were for the second time rudely aroused by the firing of guns and
the yelling of warriors. This time it was discovered that almost all the
ponies, including those of our neighbors, had been stealthily driven off by
horse-thieves of another tribe.

These miscreants were adepts in their profession, for they had
accomplished their purpose with much skill, almost under the very eyes of
the foe, and had it not been for the invincible superstition of Slow Dog, they
would have met with complete success. As it was, they caused us no little
trouble and anxiety, but after a hot pursuit of a whole day, with the
assistance of the halfbreeds our horses were recaptured.
Slow Dog was one of those Indians who are filled with conceit, and
boasting loudly their pretensions as medicine men, without any success,
only bring upon themselves an unnecessary amount of embarrassment and
ridicule. Yet there is one quality always possessed by such persons, among a
savage people as elsewhere—namely, great perseverance and tenacity in
their self-assertion. So the blessing of ignorance kept Slow Dog always
cheerful; and he seemed, if anything, to derive some pleasure from the
endless insinuations and ridicule of the people!
Now Slow Dog had loudly proclaimed, on the night before this event,
that he had received the warning of a bad dream, in which he had seen all
the ponies belonging to the tribe stampeded and driven westward.
“But who cares for Slow Dog’s dream?” said everybody; “none of the
really great medicine men have had any such visions!”
Therefore our little community, given as they were to superstition,
anticipated no special danger. It is true that when the first scout reported the
approach of troops some of the people had weakened, and said to one
another:
“After all, perhaps poor Slow Dog may be right; but we are always too
ready to laugh at him!”
However, this feeling quickly passed away when the jovial Canadians
arrived, and the old man was left alone to brood upon his warning.
He was faithful to his dream. During all the hilarity of the feast and the
drinking of the mock whiskey, be acted as self-constituted sentinel. Finally,
when everybody else had succumbed to sleep, he gathered together several
broken and discarded lariats of various materials—leather, buffalo’s hair
and horse’s hair. Having lengthened this variegated rope with innumerable
knots, he fastened one end of it around the neck of his old war-horse, and
tied the other to his wrist. Instead of sleeping inside the tent as usual, he
rolled himself in a buffalo robe and lay down in its shadow. From this place
he watched until the moon had disappeared behind the western horizon; and

just as the grey dawn began to appear in the east his eyes were attracted to
what seemed to be a dog moving among the picketed ponies. Upon a closer
scrutiny, he saw that its actions were unnatural.
“Toka abe do! toka abe do!” (the enemy! the enemy!) exclaimed Slow
Dog. With a warwhoop he sprang toward the intruder, who rose up and
leaped upon the back of Slow Dog’s warsteed. He had cut the hobble, as
well as the device of the old medicine man.
The Sioux now bent his bow to shoot, but it was too late. The other
quickly dodged behind the animal, and from under its chest he sent a deadly
arrow to Slow Dog’s bosom. Then he remounted the pony and set off at full
speed after his comrades, who had already started.
As the Sioux braves responded to the alarm, and passed by the daring old
warrior in pursuit of their enemies, who had stampeded most of the loose
ponies, the old man cried out:
“I, brave Slow Dog, who have so often made a path for you on the field
of battle, am now about to make one to the land of spirits!”
So speaking, the old man died. The Sioux were joined in the chase by the
friendly mixedbloods, and in the end the Blackfeet were compelled to pay
dearly for the blood of the poor old man.
On that beautiful morning all Nature seemed brilliant and smiling, but the
Sioux were mourning and wailing for the death of one who had been an
object of ridicule during most of his life. They appreciated the part that
Slow Dog had played in this last event, and his memory was honored by all
the tribe.

V. An Adventurous Journey
IT must now be about thirty years since our long journey in search of
new hunting-grounds, from the Assiniboine river to the Upper Missouri.
The buffalo, formerly so abundant between the two rivers, had begun to
shun their usual haunts, on account of the great numbers of Canadian
halfbreeds in that part of the country. There was also the first influx of
English sportsmen, whose wholesale methods of destruction wrought such
havoc with the herds. These seemingly intelligent animals correctly
prophesied to the natives the approach of the pale-face.
As we had anticipated, we found game very scarce as we travelled slowly
across the vast plains. There were only herds of antelope and sometimes
flocks of waterfowl, with here and there a lonely bull straggling aimlessly
along. At first our party was small, but as we proceeded on our way we fell
in with some of the western bands of Sioux and Assiniboines, who are close
connections.
Each day the camp was raised and marched from ten to twenty miles.
One might wonder how such a cavalcade would look in motion. The only
vehicles were the primitive travaux drawn by ponies and large Esquimaux
dogs. These are merely a pair of shafts fastened on either side of the animal,
and trailing on the ground behind. A large basket suspended between the
poles, just above the ground, supplied a place for goods and a safe nest for
the babies, or an occasional helpless old woman. Most of our effects were
carried by pack ponies; and an Indian packer excels all others in quickness
and dexterity.
The train was nearly a mile long, headed by a number of old warriors on
foot, who carried the filled pipe, and decided when and where to stop. A
very warm day made much trouble for the women who had charge of the
moving household. The pack dogs were especially unmanageable. They
would become very thirsty and run into the water with their loads. The
scolding of the women, the singing of the old men and the yelps of the
Indian dudes made our progress a noisy one, and like that of a town in
motion rather than an ordinary company of travelers.

This journey of ours was not without its exciting episodes. My uncle had
left the main body and gone off to the south with a small party, as he was
accustomed to do every summer, to seek revenge of some sort on the whites
for all the injuries that they had inflicted upon our family. This time he met
with a company of soldiers between Fort Totten and Fort Berthold, in North
Dakota. Somehow, these seven Indians surprised the troopers in broad
daylight, while eating their dinner, and captured the whole outfit, including
nearly all their mules and one white horse, with such of their provisions as
they cared to carry back with them. No doubt these soldiers reported at the
fort that they had been attacked by a large party of Indians, and I dare say
some promotions rewarded their tale of a brave defense! However, the facts
are just as I have stated them. My uncle brought home the white horse, and
the fine Spanish mules were taken by the others. Among the things they
brought back with them were several loaves of raised bread, the first I had
ever seen, and a great curiosity. We called it aguyape tachangu, or lung
bread, from its spongy consistency.
Although when a successful war-party returns with so many trophies,
there is usually much dancing and hilarity, there was almost nothing of the
kind on this occasion. The reason was that the enemy made little resistance;
and then there was our old tradition with regard to the whites that there is
no honor in conquering them, as they fight only under compulsion. Had
there really been a battle, and some of our men been killed, there would
have been some enthusiasm.
It was upon this journey that a hunter performed the feat of shooting an
arrow through three antelopes. This statement may perhaps be doubted, yet
I can vouch for its authenticity. He was not alone at the time, and those who
were with him are reliable witnesses. The animals were driven upon a
marshy peninsula, where they were crowded together and almost helpless.
Many were despatched with knives and arrows; and a man by the name of
Grey-foot, who was large and tall and an extraordinarily fine hunter,
actually sent his arrow through three of them. This feat was not
accomplished by mere strength, for it requires a great deal of skill as well.
A misfortune occurred near the river which deprived us of one of our best
young men. There was no other man, except my own uncle, for whom I had
at that time so great an admiration. Very strangely, as it appeared to me, he
bore a Christian name. He was commonly called Jacob. I did not discover

how he came by such a curious and apparently meaningless name until after
I had returned to the United States. His father had been converted by one of
the early missionaries, before the Minnesota massacre in 1862, and the boy
had been baptized Jacob. He was an ideal woodsman and hunter and really
a hero in my eyes. He was one of the party of seven who had attacked and
put to rout the white soldiers.
The trouble arose thus. Jacob had taken from the soldiers two good
mules, and soon afterward we fell in with some Canadian half-breeds who
were desirous of trading for them. However, the young man would not
trade; he was not at all disposed to part with his fine mules. A certain one of
the mixed-bloods was intent upon getting possession of these animals by
fair or unfair means. He invited Jacob to dinner, and treated him to whiskey;
but the Indian youth declined the liquor. The half-breed pretended to take
this refusal to drink as an insult. He seized his gun and shot his guest dead.
In a few minutes the scene was one of almost unprecedented excitement.
Every adult Indian, female as well as male, was bent upon invading the
camp of the bois brules, to destroy the murderer. The confusion was made
yet more intolerable by the wailing of the women and the singing of death-
songs.
Our number was now ten to one of the halfbreeds. Within the circle
formed by their carts they prepared for a desperate resistance. The hills
about their little encampment were covered with warriors, ready to pounce
upon them at the signal of their chief.
The older men, however, were discussing in council what should be
demanded of the halfbreeds. It was determined that the murderer must be
given up to us, to be punished according to the laws of the plains. If,
however, they should refuse to give him up, the mode of attack decided
upon was to build a fire around the offenders and thus stampede their
horses, or at the least divide their attention. Meanwhile, the braves were to
make a sudden onset.
Just then a piece of white, newly-tanned deerskin was hoisted up in the
center of the bois brule encampment. It was a flag of truce. One of their
number approached the council lodge, unarmed and making the sign for a
peaceful communication. He was admitted to the council, which was still in
session, and offered to give up the murderer. It was also proposed, as an

alternative, that he be compelled to give everything he had to the parents of
the murdered man.
The parents were allowed no voice whatever in the discussion which
followed, for they were regarded as incompetent judges, under the
circumstances. It was finally decreed by the council that the man’s life
should be spared, but that he must be exposed to the indignity of a public
whipping, and resign all his earthly possessions to the parents of his victim.
This sentence was carried into effect.
In our nomadic life there were a few unwritten laws by which our people
were governed. There was a council, a police force, and an executive
officer, who was not always the chief, but a member of the tribe appointed
to this position for a given number of days. There were also the wise old
men who were constantly in attendance at the council lodge, and acted as
judges in the rare event of the commission of a crime.
This simple government of ours was supported by the issue of little sticks
about five inches long. There were a hundred or so of these, and they were
distributed every few days by the police or soldiers, who kept account of
them. Whoever received one of these sticks must return it within five or ten
days, with a load of provisions. If one was held beyond the stipulated time
the police would call the delinquent warrior to account. In case he did not
respond, they could come and destroy his tent or take away his weapons.
When all the sticks had been returned, they were reissued to other men; and
so the council lodge was supported.
It was the custom that no man who had not distinguished himself upon
the war-path could destroy the home of another. This was a necessary
qualification for the office of an Indian policeman. These policemen must
also oversee the hunt, lest some individuals should be well provided with
food while others were in want. No man might hunt independently. The
game must be carefully watched by the game scouts, and the discovery of a
herd reported at once to the council, after which the time and manner of the
hunt were publicly announced.
I well recall how the herald announced the near approach of buffaloes. It
was supposed that if the little boys could trip up the old man while going
his rounds, the success of the hunt was assured. The oftener he was tripped,
the more successful it would be! The signal or call for buffaloes was a
peculiar whistle. As soon as the herald appeared, all the boys would give the

whistle and follow in crowds after the poor old man. Of course he tried to
avoid them, but they were generally too quick for him.
There were two kinds of scouts, for hunting and for war. In one sense
every Indian was a scout; but there were some especially appointed to serve
for a certain length of time. An Indian might hunt every day, besides the
regularly organized hunt; but he was liable to punishment at any time. If he
could kill a solitary buffalo or deer without disturbing the herd, it was
allowed. He might also hunt small game.
In the movable town under such a government as this, there was apt to be
inconvenience and actual suffering, since a great body of people were
supported only by the daily hunt. Hence there was a constant disposition to
break up into smaller parties, in order to obtain food more easily and freely.
Yet the wise men of the Dakotas would occasionally form large bands of
from two to five thousand people, who camped and moved about together
for a period of some months. It is apparent that so large a body could not be
easily supplied with the necessaries of life; but, on the other hand, our
enemies respected such a gathering! Of course the nomadic government
would do its utmost to hold together as long as possible. The police did all
they could to keep in check those parties who were intent upon stealing
away.
There were many times, however, when individual bands and even
families were justified in seeking to separate themselves from the rest, in
order to gain a better support. It was chiefly by reason of this food question
that the Indians never established permanent towns or organized themselves
into a more formidable nation.
There was a sad misfortune which, although it happened many
generations ago, was familiarly quoted among us. A certain band became
very independent and unruly; they went so far as to wilfully disobey the
orders of the general government. The police were directed to punish the
leader severely; whereupon the rest defended him and resisted the police.
But the latter were competent to enforce their authority, and as a result the
entire band was annihilated.
One day, as we were following along the bank of the Upper Missouri,
there appeared to be a great disturbance at the head of the cavalcade—so
much so that we thought our people had been attacked by a war-party of the
Crows or some of the hostile tribes of that region. In spite of the danger,

even the women and children hurried forward to join the men—that is to
say, as many as were not upon the hunt. Most of the warriors were out, as
usual, and only the large boys and the old men were travelling with the
women and their domestic effects and little ones.
As we approached the scene of action, we heard loud shouts and the
report of fire-arms; but our party was scattered along for a considerable
distance, and all was over before we could reach the spot. It was a great
grizzly bear who had been bold enough to oppose, single-handed, the
progress of several hundred Indians. The council-men, who usually walked
a little in advance of the train, were the first to meet the bear, and he was
probably deceived by the sight of this advance body, and thus audaciously
defied them.
Among these council-men—all retired chiefs and warriors whose ardent
zeal for the display of courage had long been cooled, and whose present
duties were those of calm deliberation for their people’s welfare—there
were two old, distinguished war-chiefs. Each of these men still carried his
war-lance, wrapped up in decorated buckskin. As the bear advanced boldly
toward them, the two old men promptly threw off their robes—an evidence
that there still lurked within their breasts the spirit of chivalry and ready
courage. Spear in hand, they both sprang forward to combat with the
ferocious animal, taking up their positions about ten feet apart.
As they had expected, the fearful beast, after getting up on his haunches
and growling savagely, came forward with widely opened jaws. He fixed
his eyes upon the left-hand man, who was ready to meet him with uplifted
spear, but with one stroke of his powerful paw the weapon was sent to the
ground. At the same moment the right-hand man dealt him a stab that
penetrated the grizzly’s side.
The bear uttered a groan not unlike that of a man, and seized the spear so
violently that its owner was thrown to the ground. As the animal drew the
lance from its body, the first man, having recovered his own, stabbed him
with it on the other side. Upon this, he turned and knocked the old man
down, and again endeavored to extract the spear.
By this time all the dogs and men were at hand. Many arrows and balls
were sent into the tough hide of the bear. Yet he would probably have killed
both his assailants, had it not been for the active small dogs who were

constantly upon his heels and annoying him. A deadly rifle shot at last
brought him down.
The old men were badly bruised and torn, but both of them recovered, to
bear from that day the high-sounding titles of “Fought-the-Bear” and
“Conquered-the-Grizzly.”

XI. The Laughing Philosopher
THERE is scarcely anything so exasperating to me as the idea that the
natives of this country have no sense of humor and no faculty for mirth.
This phase of their character is well understood by those whose fortune or
misfortune it has been to live among them day in and day out at their
homes. I don’t believe I ever heard a real hearty laugh away from the
Indians’ fireside. I have often spent an entire evening in laughing with them
until I could laugh no more. There are evenings when the recognized wit or
story-teller of the village gives a free entertainment which keeps the rest of
the community in a convulsive state until he leaves them. However, Indian
humor consists as much in the gestures and inflections of the voice as in
words, and is really untranslatable.
Matogee (Yellow Bear) was a natural humorous speaker, and a very
diffident man at other times. He usually said little, but when he was in the
mood he could keep a large company in a roar. This was especially the case
whenever he met his brother-in-law, Tamedokah.
It was a custom with us Indians to joke more particularly with our
brothers- and sisters-in-law. But no one ever complained, or resented any of
these jokes, however personal they might be. That would be an
unpardonable breach of etiquette.
“Tamedokah, I heard that you tried to capture a buck by holding on to his
tail,” said Matogee, laughing. “I believe that feat cannot be performed any
more; at least, it never has been since the pale-face brought us the knife, the
‘mysterious iron,’ and the pulverized coal that makes bullets fly. Since our
ancestors hunted with stone knives and hatchets, I say, that has never been
done.”
The fact was that Tamedokah had stunned a buck that day while hunting,
and as he was about to dress him the animal got up and attempted to run,
whereupon the Indian launched forth to secure his game. He only succeeded
in grasping the tail of the deer, and was pulled about all over the meadows
and the adjacent woods until the tail came off in his hands. Matogee thought
this too good a joke to be lost.

I sat near the door of the tent, and thoroughly enjoyed the story of the
comical accident.
“Yes,” Tamedokah quietly replied, “I thought I would do something to
beat the story of the man who rode a young elk, and yelled frantically for
help, crying like a woman.”
“Ugh! that was only a legend,” retorted Matogee, for it was he who was
the hero of this tale in his younger days. “But this is a fresh feat of to-day.
Chankpayuhah said he could not tell which was the most scared, the buck
or you,” he continued. “He said the deer’s eyes were bulging out of their
sockets, while Tamedokah’s mouth was constantly enlarging toward his
ears, and his hair floated on the wind, shaking among the branches of the
trees. That will go down with the traditions of our fathers,” he concluded
with an air of satisfaction.
“It was a singular mishap,” admitted Tamedokah.
The pipe had been filled by Matogee and passed to Tamedokah good-
naturedly, still with a broad smile on his face. “It must be acknowledged,”
he resumed, “that you have the strongest kind of a grip, for no one else
could hold on as long as you did, and secure such a trophy besides. That tail
will do for an eagle feather holder.”
By this time the teepee was packed to overflowing. Loud laughter had
been heard issuing from the lodge of Matogee, and everybody suspected
that he had something good, so many had come to listen.
“I think we should hear the whole matter,” said one of the late comers.
The teepee was brightly lit by the burning embers, and all the men were
sitting with their knees up against their chests, held in that position by
wrapping their robes tightly around loins and knees. This fixed them
something in the fashion of a rocking-chair.
“Well, no one saw him except Chankpayuhah,” Matogee remarked.
“Yes, yes, he must tell us about it,” exclaimed a chorus of voices.
“This is what I saw,” the witness began. “I was tracking a buck and a
doe. As I approached a small opening at the creek side ‘boom!’ came a
report of the mysterious iron. I remained in a stooping position, hoping to
see a deer cross the opening. In this I was not disappointed, for immediately
after the report a fine buck dashed forth with Tamedokah close behind him.
The latter was holding on to the deer’s tail with both hands and his knife

was in his mouth, but it soon dropped out. ‘Tamedokah,’ I shouted, ‘haven’t
you got hold of the wrong animal?’ but as I spoke they disappeared into the
woods.
“In a minute they both appeared again, and then it was that I began to
laugh. I could not stop. It almost killed me. The deer jumped the longest
jumps I ever saw. Tamedokah walked the longest paces and was very swift.
His hair was whipping the trees as they went by. Water poured down his
face. I stood bent forward because I could not straighten my back-bone, and
was ready to fall when they again disappeared.
“When they came out for the third time it seemed as if the woods and the
meadow were moving too. Tamedokah skipped across the opening as if he
were a grasshopper learning to hop. I fell down.
“When I came to he was putting water on my face and head, but when I
looked at him I fell again, and did not know anything until the sun had
passed the mid-sky.
“The company was kept roaring all the way through this account, while
Tamedokah himself heartily joined in the mirth.
“Ho, ho, ho!” they said; “he has made his name famous in our annals.
This will be told of him henceforth.”
“It reminds me of Chadozee’s bear story,” said one.
“His was more thrilling, because it was really dangerous,” interposed
another.
“You can tell it to us, Bobdoo,” remarked a third.
The man thus addressed made no immediate reply. He was smoking
contentedly. At last he silently returned the pipe to Matogee, with whom it
had begun its rounds. Deliberately he tightened his robe around him, saying
as he did so:
“Ho (Yes). I was with him. It was by a very little that he saved his life. I
will tell you how it happened.
“I was hunting with these two men, Nageedah and Chadozee. We came to
some wild cherry bushes. I began to eat of the fruit when I saw a large
silver-tip crawling toward us. ‘Look out! there is a grizzly here,’ I shouted,
and I ran my pony out on to the prairie; but the others had already
dismounted.

“Nageedah had just time to jump upon his pony and get out of the way,
but the bear seized hold of his robe and pulled it off. Chadozee stood upon
the verge of a steep bank, below which there ran a deep and swift-flowing
stream. The bear rushed upon him so suddenly that when he took a step
backward, they both fell into the creek together. It was a fall of about twice
the height of a man.”
“Did they go out of sight?” some one inquired.
“Yes, both fell headlong. In his excitement Chadozee laid hold of the
bear in the water, and I never saw a bear try so hard to get away from a man
as this one did.”
“Ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha!” they all laughed.
“When they came to the surface again they were both so eager to get to
the shore that each let go, and they swam as quickly as they could to
opposite sides. Chadozee could not get any further, so he clung to a stray
root, still keeping a close watch of the bear, who was forced to do the same.
There they both hung, regarding each other with looks of contempt and
defiance.”
“Ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha!” they all laughed again.
“At last the bear swam along the edge to a lower place, and we pulled
Chadozee up by means of our lariats. All this time he had been groaning so
loud that we supposed he was badly torn; but when I looked for his wounds
I found a mere scratch.”
Again the chorus of appreciation from his hearers.
“The strangest thing about this affair of mine,” spoke up Tamedokah, “is
that I dreamed the whole thing the night before.”
“There are some dreams come true, and I am a believer in dreams,” one
remarked.
“Yes, certainly, so are we all. You know Hachah almost lost his life by
believing in dreams,” commented Matogee.
“Let us hear that story,” was the general request.
“You have all heard of Hachah, the great medicine man, who did many
wonderful things. He once dreamed four nights in succession of flying from
a high cliff over the Minnesota river. He recollected every particular of the
scene, and it made a great impression upon his mind.

“The next day after he had dreamed it for the fourth time, he proposed to
his wife that they go down to the river to swim, but his real purpose was to
see the place of his dream.
“He did find the place, and it seemed to Hachah exactly like. A crooked
tree grew out of the top of the cliff, and the water below was very deep.”
“Did he really fly?” I called impatiently from the doorway, where I had
been listening and laughing with the rest.
“Ugh, that is what I shall tell you. He was swimming about with his wife,
who was a fine swimmer; but all at once Hachah disappeared. Presently he
stood upon the very tree that he had seen in his dream, and gazed out over
the water. The tree was very springy, and Hachah felt sure that he could fly;
so before long he launched bravely forth from the cliff. He kicked out
vigorously and swung both arms as he did so, but nevertheless he came
down to the bottom of the water like a crow that had been shot on the
wing.”
“Ho, ho, ho! Ho, ho, ho!” and the whole company laughed unreservedly.
“His wife screamed loudly as Hachah whirled downward and went out of
sight like a blue heron after a fish. Then she feared he might be stunned, so
she swam to him and dragged him to the shore. He could not speak, but the
woman overwhelmed him with reproaches.
“‘What are you trying to do, you old idiot? Do you want to kill yourself?’
she screamed again and again.
“‘Woman, be silent,’ he replied, and he said nothing more. He did not tell
his dream for many years afterward. Not until he was a very old man and
about to die, did Hachah tell any one how he thought he could fly.”
And at this they all laughed louder than ever.

XII. FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF CIVILIZATION
I WAS scarcely old enough to know anything definite about the “Big
Knives,” as we called the white men, when the terrible Minnesota massacre
broke up our home and I was carried into exile. I have already told how I
was adopted into the family of my father’s younger brother, when my father
was betrayed and imprisoned. We all supposed that he had shared the fate of
those who were executed at Mankato, Minnesota.
Now the savage philosophers looked upon vengeance in the field of
battle as a lofty virtue. To avenge the death of a relative or of a dear friend
was considered a great deed. My uncle, accordingly, had spared no pains to
instill into my young mind the obligation to avenge the death of my father
and my older brothers. Already I looked eagerly forward to the day when I
should find an opportunity to carry out his teachings. Meanwhile, he
himself went upon the war-path and returned with scalps every summer. So
it may be imagined how I felt toward the Big Knives!
On the other hand, I had heard marvelous things of this people. In some
things we despised them; in others we regarded them as wakan
(mysterious), a race whose power bordered upon the supernatural. I learned
that they had made a “fireboat.” I could not understand how they could
unite two elements which cannot exist together. I thought the water would
put out the fire, and the fire would consume the boat if it had the shadow of
a chance. This was to me a preposterous thing! But when I was told that the
Big Knives had created a “fire-boat-walks-on-mountains” (a locomotive) it
was too much to believe.
“Why,” declared my informant, “those who saw this monster move said
that it flew from mountain to mountain when it seemed to be excited. They
said also that they believed it carried a thunder-bird, for they frequently
heard his usual war-whoop as the creature sped along!”
Several warriors had observed from a distance one of the first trains on
the Northern Pacific, and had gained an exaggerated impression of the
wonders of the pale-face. They had seen it go over a bridge that spanned a

deep ravine and it seemed to them that it jumped from one bank to the
other. I confess that the story almost quenched my ardor and bravery.
Two or three young men were talking together about this fearful
invention.
“However,” said one, “I understand that this fire-boat-walks-on-
mountains cannot move except on the track made for it.”
Although a boy is not expected to join in the conversation of his elders, I
ventured to ask: “Then it cannot chase us into any rough country?”
“No, it cannot do that,” was the reply, which I heard with a great deal of
relief.
I had seen guns and various other things brought to us by the French
Canadians, so that I had already some notion of the supernatural gifts of the
white man; but I had never before heard such tales as I listened to that
morning. It was said that they had bridged the Missouri and Mississippi
rivers, and that they made immense houses of stone and brick, piled on top
of one another until they were as high as high hills. My brain was puzzled
with these things for many a day. Finally I asked my uncle why the Great
Mystery gave such power to the Washechu (the rich)-sometimes we called
them by this name—and not to us Dakotas.
“For the same reason,” he answered, “that he gave to Duta the skill to
make fine bows and arrows, and to Wachesne no skill to make anything.”
“And why do the Big Knives increase so much more in number than the
Dakotas?” I continued.
“It has been said, and I think it must be true, that they have larger
families than we do. I went into the house of an Eashecha (a German), and I
counted no less than nine children. The eldest of them could not have been
over fifteen. When my grandfather first visited them, down at the mouth of
the Mississippi, they were comparatively few; later my father visited their
Great Father at Washington, and they had already spread over the whole
country.”
“Certainly they are a heartless nation. They have made some of their
people servants—yes, slaves! We have never believed in keeping slaves, but
it seems that these Washechu do! It is our belief that they painted their
servants black a long time ago, to tell them from the rest, and now the
slaves have children born to them of the same color!

“The greatest object of their lives seems to be to acquire possessions—to
be rich. They desire to possess the whole world. For thirty years they were
trying to entice us to sell them our land. Finally the outbreak gave them all,
and we have been driven away from our beautiful country.
“They are a wonderful people. They have divided the day into hours, like
the moons of the year. In fact, they measure everything. Not one of them
would let so much as a turnip go from his field unless he received full value
for it. I understand that their great men make a feast and invite many, but
when the feast is over the guests are required to pay for what they have
eaten before leaving the house. I myself saw at White Cliff (the name given
to St. Paul, Minnesota) a man who kept a brass drum and a bell to call
people to his table; but when he got them in he would make them pay for
the food!
“I am also informed,” said my uncle, “but this I hardly believe, that their
Great Chief (President) compels every man to pay him for the land he lives
upon and all his personal goods—even for his own existence—every year!”
(This was his idea of taxation.) “I am sure we could not live under such a
law.
“When the outbreak occurred, we thought that our opportunity had come,
for we had learned that the Big Knives were fighting among themselves, on
account of a dispute over their slaves. It was said that the Great Chief had
allowed slaves in one part of the country and not in another, so there was
jealousy, and they had to fight it out. We don’t know how true this was.
“There were some praying-men who came to us some time before the
trouble arose. They observed every seventh day as a holy day. On that day
they met in a house that they had built for that purpose, to sing, pray, and
speak of their Great Mystery. I was never in one of these meetings. I
understand that they had a large book from which they read. By all accounts
they were very different from all other white men we have known, for these
never observed any such day, and we never knew them to pray, neither did
they ever tell us of their Great Mystery.
“In war they have leaders and war-chiefs of different grades. The
common warriors are driven forward like a herd of antelopes to face the
foe. It is on account of this manner of fighting—from compulsion and not
from personal bravery—that we count no coup on them. A lone warrior can
do much harm to a large army of them in a bad country.”

It was this talk with my uncle that gave me my first clear idea of the
white man.
I was almost fifteen years old when my uncle presented me with a flint-
lock gun. The possession of the “mysterious iron,” and the explosive dirt, or
“pulverized coal,” as it is called, filled me with new thoughts. All the war-
songs that I had ever heard from childhood came back to me with their
heroes. It seemed as if I were an entirely new being—the boy had become a
man!
“I am now old enough,” said I to myself, “and I must beg my uncle to
take me with him on his next war-path. I shall soon be able to go among the
whites whenever I wish, and to avenge the blood of my father and my
brothers.”
I had already begun to invoke the blessing of the Great Mystery. Scarcely
a day passed that I did not offer up some of my game, so that he might not
be displeased with me. My people saw very little of me during the day, for
in solitude I found the strength I needed. I groped about in the wilderness,
and determined to assume my position as a man. My boyish ways were
departing, and a sullen dignity and composure was taking their place.
The thought of love did not hinder my ambitions. I had a vague dream of
some day courting a pretty maiden, after I had made my reputation, and
won the eagle feathers.
One day, when I was away on the daily hunt, two strangers from the
United States visited our camp. They had boldly ventured across the
northern border. They were Indians, but clad in the white man’s garments. It
was as well that I was absent with my gun.
My father, accompanied by an Indian guide, after many days’ searching
had found us at last. He had been imprisoned at Davenport, Iowa, with
those who took part in the massacre or in the battles following, and he was
taught in prison and converted by the pioneer missionaries, Drs. Williamson
and Riggs. He was under sentence of death, but was among the number
against whom no direct evidence was found, and who were finally pardoned
by President Lincoln.
When he was released, and returned to the new reservation upon the
Missouri river, he soon became convinced that life on a government
reservation meant physical and moral degradation. Therefore he
determined, with several others, to try the white man’s way of gaining a

livelihood. They accordingly left the agency against the persuasions of the
agent, renounced all government assistance, and took land under the United
States Homestead law, on the Big Sioux river. After he had made his home
there, he desired to seek his lost child. It was then a dangerous undertaking
to cross the line, but his Christian love prompted him to do it. He secured a
good guide, and found his way in time through the vast wilderness.
As for me, I little dreamed of anything unusual to happen on my return.
As I approached our camp with my game on my shoulder, I had not the
slightest premonition that I was suddenly to be hurled from my savage life
into a life unknown to me hitherto.
When I appeared in sight my father, who had patiently listened to my
uncle’s long account of my early life and training, became very much
excited. He was eager to embrace the child who, as he had just been
informed, made it already the object of his life to avenge his father’s blood.
The loving father could not remain in the teepee and watch the boy coming,
so he started to meet him. My uncle arose to go with his brother to insure
his safety.
My face burned with the unusual excitement caused by the sight of a man
wearing the Big Knives’ clothing and coming toward me with my uncle.
“What does this mean, uncle?”
“My boy, this is your father, my brother, whom we mourned as dead. He
has come for you.”
My father added: “I am glad that my son is strong and brave. Your
brothers have adopted the white man’s way; I came for you to learn this
new way, too; and I want you to grow up a good man.”
He had brought me some civilized clothing, At first, I disliked very much
to wear garments made by the people I had hated so bitterly. But the
thought that, after all, they had not killed my father and brothers, reconciled
me, and I put on the clothes.
In a few days we started for the States. I felt as if I were dead and
traveling to the Spirit Land; for now all my old ideas were to give place to
new ones, and my life was to be entirely different from that of the past.
Still, I was eager to see some of the wonderful inventions of the white
people. When we reached Fort Totten, I gazed about me with lively interest
and a quick imagination.

My father had forgotten to tell me that the fire-boat-walks-on-mountains
had its track at Jamestown, and might appear at any moment. As I was
watering the ponies, a peculiar shrilling noise pealed forth from just beyond
the hills. The ponies threw back their heads and listened; then they ran
snorting over the prairie. Meanwhile, I too had taken alarm. I leaped on the
back of one of the ponies, and dashed off at full speed. It was a clear day; I
could not imagine what had caused such an unearthly noise. It seemed as if
the world were about to burst in two!
I got upon a hill as the train appeared. “O!” I said to myself, “that is the
fire-boat-walkson-mountains that I have heard about!” Then I drove back
the ponies.
My father was accustomed every morning to read from his Bible, and
sing a stanza of a hymn. I was about very early with my gun for several
mornings; but at last he stopped me as I was preparing to go out, and bade
me wait.
I listened with much astonishment. The hymn contained the word Jesus. I
did not comprehend what this meant; and my father then told me that Jesus
was the Son of God who came on earth to save sinners, and that it was
because of him that he had sought me. This conversation made a deep
impression upon my mind.
Late in the fall we reached the citizen settlement at Flandreau, South
Dakota, where my father and some others dwelt among the whites. Here my
wild life came to an end, and my school days began.

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