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NEW YORK STATE MUSEUM 



tended by an aged matron, wife of the chanter. I offer to assist 

 and am stirring the soup with a large ladle when a chief summons 

 me to the ceremony and I follow him. In the room, the common 

 winter living apartment of the chief's household, about 20 feet 

 square, the members are seated close to the wall on benches ar- 

 ranged in a hollow square; in the center are a large stove and a 

 table ; on the latter are a large pail and a dipper for the strawberry 

 water, a lot of small parcels, some carefully wrapped in cloth, 

 others in strips of birch and elm bark, a dozen gourd rattles, two 

 quaint looking flutes and a small oil lamp that renders the corner 

 shadows darker and more wierd by its flickering. 



I stand at the door unnoticed. Were it not for my knowledge 

 of the customs of the red men I would retreat. 



I know by their mute language that they are discussing me. 



I know that they will give me a sign by which I do finally enter 

 the room and take the seat appointed me in the northeast corner. 



The initiation 



The venerable chief walks to the table, takes a box and passes 

 it to all. It is the sacred or incense tobacco of which each mem- 

 ber receives a small pipe portion. He offers me a new clay pipe 

 and lights the sacred tobacco with the punk kindled by the flint 

 fire and whispers to me, " Smoke, sister, smoke!" 



As I receive the pipe he awaits for my assent. I make a sign 

 motion with the pipe, and, raising it to my lips, with one inhala- 

 tion promise and declare loyalty forever to the silences of the 

 Ne-gar-na-gar-ah . 



After my vow the pipe of each in the room, including those of 

 four elderly women, is lighted by the chief, who carries the burning 

 punk in his hand; thus performing the rite of "community of 

 friendship." 



During the smoking the legend of the Ne-gar-na-gar-ah is related 

 to me by a chief of the Wolf Clan and interpreted by my host who 

 sits by my side. 



After a wait of a few minutes the lamp is blown out and all is 

 darkness. I sit near the window, but I can not see the lowest 

 branch of the apple tree, which, blown by the wind, is scratching the 

 panes with a ghostly touch. The hush is heavy and Stirling. 

 Can there be around me twenty-five people in this dark stillness? 

 I clasp my hands together with a pinching clutch, and recall the 

 injunction of my host to " continually remember the legend of the 

 chief's journey." 



