﻿COUNCILS 
  AND 
  CEREMONIES 
  OF 
  ADOPTION 
  OF 
  NEW 
  YORK 
  INDIANS 
  409 
  

  

  with 
  a 
  sneer 
  said, 
  — 
  " 
  Why 
  here 
  is 
  not 
  whisky 
  enough 
  for 
  a 
  name 
  

   to 
  float 
  in." 
  But 
  no 
  movement 
  being 
  made 
  to 
  get 
  more, 
  he 
  drank 
  

   it 
  off, 
  and 
  proceeded 
  with 
  a 
  sort 
  of 
  pagan 
  orgies, 
  to 
  give 
  me 
  a 
  

   name. 
  It 
  seemed 
  a 
  semicivil, 
  semireligious 
  ceremony. 
  He 
  walked 
  

   around 
  me 
  again 
  and 
  again, 
  muttering 
  sounds 
  which 
  the 
  interpreter 
  

   did 
  not 
  venture 
  to 
  explain; 
  and 
  laying 
  hand 
  on 
  me 
  pronounced 
  me 
  

   " 
  Con-go-gu-wah," 
  and 
  instantly, 
  with 
  great 
  apparent 
  delight, 
  took 
  

   me 
  by 
  the 
  hand 
  as 
  a 
  brother. 
  Stone, 
  p. 
  348 
  

  

  Schoolcraft 
  gave 
  the 
  Onondaga 
  account 
  of 
  early 
  adoption, 
  before 
  

   it 
  had 
  become 
  a 
  mere 
  privilege 
  or 
  compliment, 
  but 
  was 
  a 
  part 
  of 
  

   national 
  policy, 
  strengthening 
  rather 
  than 
  weakening 
  themsehes 
  by 
  

   war: 
  

  

  Their 
  plan 
  was 
  to 
  select 
  for 
  adoption 
  from 
  the 
  prisoners, 
  and 
  cap- 
  

   tives, 
  and 
  fragments 
  of 
  tribes 
  whom 
  they 
  conquered. 
  These 
  cap- 
  

   tives 
  were 
  equally 
  divided 
  among 
  each 
  of 
  the 
  tribes, 
  were 
  adopted 
  

   and 
  incorporated 
  with 
  them, 
  and 
  served 
  to 
  make 
  good 
  their 
  losses. 
  

   They 
  used 
  the 
  term, 
  W 
  e-hait-zvat-sha, 
  in 
  relation 
  to 
  these 
  captives. 
  

   This 
  term 
  means 
  a 
  body 
  cut 
  into 
  parts 
  and 
  scattered 
  around. 
  

   Schoolcraft, 
  p. 
  29 
  

  

  While 
  a 
  little 
  girl, 
  Mary 
  Jemison 
  was 
  adopted 
  by 
  two 
  Seneca 
  

  

  women 
  in 
  the 
  place 
  of 
  their 
  dead 
  brother. 
  The 
  song 
  she 
  heard 
  has 
  

  

  quite 
  a 
  modern 
  sound, 
  but 
  follows 
  as 
  given 
  by 
  her 
  biographer. 
  

  

  Several 
  women 
  stood 
  round, 
  and 
  one 
  mournfully 
  sang 
  : 
  

  

  Oh, 
  our 
  brother 
  ! 
  alas 
  ! 
  he 
  is 
  dead 
  — 
  he 
  has 
  gone 
  ; 
  he 
  will 
  never 
  

   return 
  ! 
  Friendless 
  he 
  died 
  on 
  the 
  field 
  of 
  the 
  slain, 
  where 
  his 
  bones 
  

   are 
  yet 
  lying 
  unburied 
  ! 
  Oh, 
  who 
  will 
  not 
  mourn 
  his 
  sad 
  fate 
  ? 
  No 
  

   tears 
  of 
  his 
  sisters 
  were 
  there 
  ! 
  He 
  fell 
  in 
  his 
  prime, 
  when 
  his 
  arm 
  

   was 
  most 
  needed 
  to 
  keep 
  us 
  from 
  danger 
  ! 
  Alas 
  ! 
  he 
  has 
  gone, 
  and 
  

   left 
  us 
  in 
  sorrow, 
  his 
  loss 
  to 
  bewail 
  ! 
  Oh, 
  where 
  is 
  his 
  spirit 
  ? 
  His 
  

   spirit 
  went 
  naked, 
  and 
  hungry 
  it 
  wanders, 
  and 
  thirsty 
  and 
  wounded 
  

   it 
  groans 
  to 
  return! 
  Oh, 
  helpless 
  and 
  wretched 
  our 
  brother 
  has 
  

   gone 
  ! 
  No 
  blanket 
  nor 
  food 
  to 
  nourish 
  and 
  warm 
  him 
  ; 
  nor 
  candles 
  

   to 
  light 
  him, 
  nor 
  weapons 
  of 
  war 
  ! 
  Oh, 
  none 
  of 
  these 
  comforts 
  had 
  

   he 
  ! 
  But 
  well 
  we 
  remember 
  his 
  deeds 
  ! 
  The 
  deer 
  he 
  could 
  take 
  on 
  

   the 
  chase 
  ! 
  The 
  panther 
  shrunk 
  back 
  at 
  the 
  sight 
  of 
  his 
  strength 
  ! 
  

   His 
  enemies 
  fell 
  at 
  his 
  feet 
  ! 
  He 
  was 
  brave 
  and 
  courageous 
  in 
  war 
  ! 
  

   As 
  the 
  fawn 
  he 
  was 
  harmless 
  ; 
  his 
  friendship 
  was 
  ardent 
  ; 
  his 
  temper 
  

   was 
  gentle 
  ; 
  his 
  pity 
  was 
  great 
  ! 
  Oh, 
  our 
  friend, 
  our 
  companion, 
  is 
  

   dead 
  ! 
  Our 
  brother, 
  our 
  brother 
  ! 
  alas, 
  he 
  is 
  gone 
  ! 
  But 
  why 
  do 
  we 
  

   grieve 
  for 
  his 
  loss 
  ? 
  In 
  the 
  strength 
  of 
  a 
  warrior, 
  undaunted 
  he 
  left 
  

   us, 
  to 
  fight 
  by 
  the 
  side 
  of 
  the 
  chiefs 
  ! 
  His 
  war 
  whoop 
  was 
  shrill 
  ! 
  

   His 
  rifle 
  well 
  aimed 
  laid 
  his 
  enemies 
  low 
  ; 
  his 
  tomahawk 
  drank 
  of 
  

  

  