332 ANTHROPOLOGY. 



bands as soon as they get old enough. The price of a squaw varies 

 considerably, but generally amounts to three or four horses or mules, 

 and sever;;] plugs of tobacco. Sisters are not usually married to the 

 same man, as it is considered better to change about, and have relatives 

 in as many families as possible. The squaws collect roots, and cook, put 

 up the lodges and take them down, dress the skins, and make clothing. 

 They also make parfleches, or heavy bags of buffalo skin, in which buf- 

 falo meat and fat are packed away, and manufacture bowls and baskets 

 from wood and grass. They collect seeds and wood, and take care of 

 the horses, load and unload the animals, and have general charge of the 

 baggage. The whole drudgery of camp devolves upon them, and the 

 life which women lead among the savages is one of abject slavery. 

 An Indian thinks it beneath his dignity to do any kind of work except 

 hunting, fishing, and engaging in war. 



In the long and dreary days of winter the Indians sit in their lodges, 

 where there is a good supply of meat, and pass the time as best they 

 can. They tell stories of their hunting expeditions and war parties, and 

 embellish their narratives as much as possible. They tell of the Great 

 Brown Bear of the Mountains, who dwells amid the snows that hang 

 about their summits, and whose howls mingle with the thunders of 

 summer and the wild wailings of the winter storm ; of Giant Big Horn, 

 who roams through the deep gorges of the Sierras, and climbs the rugged 

 rocks, whose feet are swifter than the north wind, and as untiring as the 

 rushing waters. They tell of the ghosts, or Tsoaps, who haunt the 

 meadows and forests, and are ever ready to give them warning of 

 the time of their departure to the land of spirits. They tell of the 

 Big Beaver, who dwells in the marshes near Green River, whose breath 

 can split the hardest rock, and the tire from whose eyes can melt the 

 thickest ice. They tell of the Black Raven, who sits above the battle- 

 ground where so many Shoshonis were killed by the Sioux in 1801), 

 who croaks over the remains of the dead and flaps his broad wings 

 noiselessly through the dreary nights when the moon is dead. These 

 stories and many more they tell each other, until, like children, they 

 cower near the lodge-tiros and are afraid to go out alone. Never were 

 there more marvelous story tellers, and never were there more willing 

 listeners. Almost every summer they get thoroughly frightened by 

 some prophet predicting the speedy end of the world. 



Old and young mount their ponies, and, crossing the mountains, as- 

 semble near Bear River, where they go through a series of dances, 

 incantations, and rites until they are almost beside themselves with 

 excitement. This excitement disappears as quickly as it makes its ap- 

 pearance, and then all hands pack up again and bundle themselves oft 

 home as contented as can be. Instead of doing harm, these meetings 

 seem to do a great deal of good. They stir up the Indian blood and the 

 excitement exhausts itself. Were it not for these displays the Indians 

 might consider it their duty to make a raid upon some white man's 



