Perhaps you wonder why the arrow is feathered at the end. This will make it go straight ahead in the direction in which it is sent. Sometimes Yellow Thunder uses arrow-heads cut out of flint. They are dangerous things, and will kill deer and even men. Indians have often been known to place poison on the arrow-heads they used in warfare. The agonies of the men who were shot by them were terrible indeed.
Black Cloud has not been to war since Yellow Thunder was born. There are so few of the red race now, and the numbers of the white men are so great, that there is not much chance of warfare.
However, many stories are told in Black Cloud's lodge of the good old days when the war-whoop was commonly heard and the tomahawk and scalping-knife were in constant use. Yellow Thunder often passes by the grave of a great Indian chief, and thinks about that hero's bravery in battle. This grave is reverently marked and carefully fenced in. The boy wishes he had a chance to leave such a memory.
At the head of the grave there is a stick with the figure of a wolf carved upon it. It is the symbol, or "totem" of the chief's tribe. Below the wolf there are many strokes of red paint, which Yellow Thunder likes to count, for each stroke tells of a scalp taken in warfare.
Not many miles up the river above Yellow Thunder's home, beavers are hunted. Black Cloud likes to catch them, because their flesh is good to eat, and the skin is covered with fine fur. Last winter he allowed his son to go with himself and a party of men to hunt for this clever little creature.
Yellow Thunder believes that the beavers were once people and able to speak like himself. But they were too wise, so the Great Spirit took away this power and changed them into these animals.
I wonder if you have ever seen a beaver's house. He usually makes it of the young wood of birch or pine trees, and builds it a short way out in the river, so that it is surrounded by water. He shows a great deal of skill in making his home. It has a roof shaped like a dome. It reaches three or four feet above the surface of the water.
There are generally only two young beavers in the family. The first year they live with their parents. The second year they have a room built next to the main house for their special use. By this time they are old enough to help their father and mother get food. They eat great quantities of roots and wood, but they like the wood of the birch and poplar trees best of all.
When the young beavers are two years old, they leave their old home, and choose a new place in which to build houses for themselves. Once in a great while, hunters find beavers that the Indians call "old bachelors." This is because they live alone, build no houses, but make their homes in holes they find, or dig out for themselves.
The beaver always makes holes in the banks of the river near his house. The entrance to such a hole is below the surface of the water, so that if the beaver is attacked in his house, he can flee for safety to his hiding-place in the bank.
Now let us return to Yellow Thunder and his beaver hunt. It was a bitter cold day and the river was frozen over in some places, but that would be so much the better if the hunters hoped to secure their game. They journeyed by the riverside for several miles. There was a heavy fall of snow, but they moved along quickly with the help of their snowshoes, till one of the men whispered: "I see it. Stop!"
Sure enough! A few feet away from them and from the bank rose the roof of a dam above the ice. One of the men tried the ice and found it was thick enough to bear them.
Yellow Thunder was told to remain where he was on the bank, while the rest of the party took heavy tools in their hands and went over to the beavers' house. They quickly destroyed it. But the beavers? What had become of them? They did not stay in their house to have it broken down over their heads. They were too wise. When the first alarm was given, they hurried through the water, under the icy covering of the river, to a hiding-place in the bank. They had made it long ago to be ready in case of danger.
Would the Indians succeed in finding them? Remember that nothing could be seen to show where the beavers had gone. The hunters crept along the ice on the edges of the river, and kept striking it with their mallets. If they should hear a hollow sound as they struck the ice, they would know they had discovered the beavers' hiding-place.
Ah! sure enough! It is Yellow Thunder himself who says: "Quick, father, come here; I have found it. I know this is a hole because of the noise the water makes underneath. Beavers are breathing there, or it would not move so quickly."
Black Cloud hurries to the spot and the ice is cracked in an instant. Yes, his son is right. A family of beavers is inside the hole. They must be taken quickly, or they will escape. There is but one way to do it. The hunter must reach his hands into the hole and pull the animals out. Their teeth are very sharp, and they will do their best to bite him, but Black Cloud does not think of that. He is quickly at work and pulls out one after another.
There are four beavers in all, – two old ones and their young about two years of age. They are soon killed and ready to be skinned. How beautiful and glossy the fur is! It is at its very best in midwinter.
This has been a fine day's sport, and Black Cloud has received only one bad bite in his wrist. It must cause him a good deal of pain, yet he does not show that he feels any. He binds up his wrist, and nothing is said about it.
When they reach home Yellow Thunder's mamma will take the tails of the beavers and put them in the pot to boil. The Indians think they are a great delicacy. They will make a feast, to which Black Cloud has gone to invite his friends.
His wife is standing in the door of the wigwam, waiting for the return of her husband and son. She has dressed herself with great care to-day, and has a really beautiful costume. Just imagine your mamma in a dress like hers. She wears long leggings of red cloth reaching from above her knees down over her moccasins. They are worked with beads around the edges.
A long time ago the Indian women made their clothing of deerskins and embroidered them with porcupine quills, but nowadays they buy cloth and beads of the white traders in exchange for furs.
Over the woman's leggings a long blue skirt reaches from her waist nearly to the ground. This, also, is embroidered with beads in a flower pattern. And last, but not least, she wears a bright calico overdress which reaches from her throat to a short distance below her waist, is also beaded, and is gathered in at the belt.
I must not forget to mention her glass necklace, large silver earrings, and the shoulder ornaments of woven grass and beadwork.
She is a graceful woman, and it is pleasant to look at her with the sunset light upon her black hair and eyes.
When her little boy was six years old he was very sick. His cheeks burned with fever. He could not lift his head from the mat on which he lay. His dear mamma scarcely left his side through the long hours of the day. She tried to soothe him with low, sweet songs, but it was in vain. The fever grew stronger and fiercer. Black Cloud came home at night. Looking at his little son, he said, "The medicine-man must come. He will cure him."
The medicine-man was at once sent for. He is a very important person among the Indians. He is considered very wise. He is thought to have wonderful dreams and to get instruction from the Great Spirit. The red people think he can cure sickness, unless it is the will of the Great Spirit for the patient to die.
The medicine-man always carries a bag of charms to help him in making his cures. I do not doubt you would laugh at the collection in the bag, if you had a chance to peep in, but no good Indian has a thought of doing such a thing. It is believed to be holy, and nothing inside should be looked upon except as the medicine-man draws it out to work his cures.
There are medicines, the carved figures of different animals, the bones of others, and I don't know how many other queer things.
Poor little Yellow Thunder looked up with delight as the great man entered the hut. He believed that he would soon be well and ready to work and play once more.
The medicine-man ordered first that a dog be sacrificed. Next, that the family prepare a great feast for themselves. These things would help to satisfy the Great Spirit and turn away his anger. But this was not all. He took out a rattle from his bag. It was made of the dried hoofs of deer fastened to a stick. He began to sing, beating time with his rattle, and striking himself violent blows. The singing grew louder and louder. The rattle made a fearful din.
How did our poor sick cousin stand it? I'm sure I can't tell. The little fellow lay with closed eyes and hardly moved. This queer doctor at length stopped his song and got ready to go away. He told Yellow Thunder's papa that his son would be sure to get well. And you know already from my story that our red cousin did get over his sickness, and grew to be a big, strong boy. Whether the treatment he got was any help, or whether Mother Nature did all the work, I leave you to decide for yourselves. I have my own opinion in the matter.
Yellow Thunder is very fond of music. I wonder what he would think of a church organ or grand piano. His own instruments are very simple. He made them himself. He has a tambourine on which he often plays in the evening while other children dance. He cut a section of wood from a hollow tree and stretched a skin over it, and his instrument was made.
He also has a flute. It was a little more work for the red boy to make this. He carved two pieces of cedar in the shape of half cylinders, and fastened them together with fish glue. He next hunted about in the woods for a snake. After he had found one and killed it, he took off the skin and stretched it over the wood. Eight holes were then made in the instrument, as well as a mouthpiece like that of a flageolet.
When Yellow Thunder blows upon this flute, it makes soft and sweet music. It lay by his side when he was sick with the fever, and as soon as he was strong enough to sit up, he amused himself by playing some simple tunes his mamma had taught him.
Our little friend is very fond of dancing. His people have so many dances that I shall have to tell you about some of them.
They believe the Great Spirit gave them the gift of dancing. They have a Dance for the Dead, a Medicine Dance, the War-dance, the Dance of Honour, and I don't know how many others. In some of them only men take part, and they have special costumes, while in others there are none but women. It seems as though there were always something happening among the Indians to give them a good reason to dance.
The War-dance is only performed in the evening and always on some important occasion.
Fifteen or twenty men are usually chosen, one of whom must be the leader. All appear in costume and wear knee rattles of deer's hoofs. When the time draws near, the people gather in the council-house and wait quietly for the dancers to arrive. A keeper-of-the-faith rises and makes a short speech on the meaning of the dance. Hark! The war-whoop sounds outside! It is heard again, and still again. The band is drawing near. Ah! here they come at last.
To our eyes they look hideous in their war-paint and feathers, but to the crowd of eager Indians who are waiting, they appear very fair, indeed.
They march in and form a circle. The war-whoop is sounded again by the leader, and answered by the rest of the dancers. At a given sign, the singers commence the war-song, the drums beat, and the dancers begin to move. They come down on their heels again and again with the greatest force, keeping time to the beating of the drums. The knee rattles make noise enough of themselves. The din is fearful.