Indian Boyhood [28]
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 complete- ly 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 pos- sessions for the offering to the Great Mystery! You may select what you think will be most pleas- ing 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. With- out 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 at- tention of his little friend, he might have been dissuaded from that impetuous exclamation: "Grandmother, I will give up any of my posses- sions!"
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 brave- ly. 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 ap- peared 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 Ohi- tika.
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 be- ing, 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 protuber- ance 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 oc- cupied with an eye. Among the lookers-on was
During this speech, the boy had been complete- ly 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 pos- sessions for the offering to the Great Mystery! You may select what you think will be most pleas- ing 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. With- out 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 at- tention of his little friend, he might have been dissuaded from that impetuous exclamation: "Grandmother, I will give up any of my posses- sions!"
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 brave- ly. 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 ap- peared 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 Ohi- tika.
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 be- ing, 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 protuber- ance 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 oc- cupied with an eye. Among the lookers-on was