110 MORTUARY CUSTOMS OF NORTH AMERICAN INDIANS. 
their women, on the occasion of the burial of a husband, to eut off a portion of a 
finger and have it suspended in the tree above his body. I have, however, yet to see 
an example of this having been done by any of the Indians now living, and the 
custom must have fallen into disuse more than seventy years ago. 
In regard to the period of mourning, I would say that there does not now appear to 
be, and, so far as I can learn, never was, any fixed period of mourning, but it would 
seem that, like some of the whites, they mourn when the subject is brought to their 
minds by some remark or other occurrence. It is not unusual at the present time to 
hear a man or woman ery and exclaim, ‘‘O, my poor husband!” ‘‘O, my poor wife!” 
or ‘‘O, my poor child!” as the case may be, and, upon inquiring, learn that the 
event happened several years before. I have elsewhere mentioned that in some cases 
much of the personal property of the deceased was and is reserved from burial with 
the body, and forms the basis of a gambling party. I shall conelude my remarks 
upon the burial customs, &c., of these Indians by an account of this, which they des- 
ignate as the ‘‘ghost’s gamble.” ~ 
The account of the game will be found in another part of this paper. 
As illustrative of the preparation of the dead Indian warrior for the 
tomb, a translation of Schiller’s beautiful burial song is here given. It 
is believed to be by Bulwer, and for it the writer is indebted to the 
kindness of Mr. Benjamin Drew, of Washington, D. C.: 
BURIAL OF THE CHIEFTAIN, 
See on his mat, as if of yore, 
How litelike sits he here ; 
With the same aspect that he wore 
When life to him was dear. 
But where the right arm’s strength, and where 
The breath he used to breathe 
To the Great Spirit aloft in air, 
The peace-pipe’s lusty wreath ? 
And where the hawk-like eye, alas! 
That wont the deer pursue 
Along the waves of rippling grass, 
Or fields that shone with dew ? 
Are these the limber, bounding feet 
That swept the winter snows? 
What startled deer was half so fleet, 
Their speed outstripped the roe’s. 
These hands that once the sturdy bow 
Could supple from its pride, 
How stark and helpless hang they now 
Adown the stiffened side! 
Yet weal to him! at peace he strays 
Where never fall the snows, 
Where o’er the meadow springs the maize 
That mortal never sows; 
Where birds are blithe in every brake, 
Where forests teem with deer, 
Where glide the fish through every lake, 
One chase from year to year! 
With spirits now he feasts above ; 
All left us, to revere 
The deeds we cherish with our love, 
The rest we bury here. 
