Читать книгу Seneca myths and folk tales - Arthur C. Parker - Страница 25

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Let us journey backward into the forgotten yesterday; let us catch a fleeting glimpse of a little village along the creek of Doshowey.

It is during the closing year of the Eighteenth Century. The time is in the moon Nĭsha (January), and the whole earth is covered by a thick blanket of heavy snow.

There is a deeply worn trail along the bank of the creek, but nobody walks in the trail, for it is as deeply rutted as it is deeply trodden. It is not now a road but a trench floored with rough ice and carpeted with broken patches of snow. Along the sides of the trail, over the white way, are supplementary and parallel trails that in places spread wide with the tell-tale mark of snowshoes. Here and there are deep dents where boys have wrestled and thrown each other into the drifts.

About us are great trees. Back from the creek are areas covered with tall pines and hemlocks; toward the creek are great deciduous trees looking gnarled and weather-worn. In the more open spaces are groves of nut trees, the hickory, the butternut and the walnut. Even in the depth of winter the region is inviting and suggests happiness and opportunity.

We continue our journey until we come within sight of a little village of log huts and bark lodges. The huts are rather small and primitive looking and the lodges for the most part look battered and smoky. Here and there, however, is a log cabin more sumptuous than the rest, and there are even bark houses that look comfortable. There seem to be no streets in this village, for the houses are set in any spot, seemingly, where the builder chose to erect his dwelling. Stretching in every direction are little cornfields, stripped of their ears and standing like ragged wrecks in the wind.

Before we reach the village there is an open space occupying a level area. Here and there are a score of boys and as many men shouting and playing games. In an icy trough, made by dragging a log through the snow for a quarter of a mile or more, the older boys are playing a game of snowsnake. We find that there are two rival teams, each with twenty-four long flat pieces of polished wood called “gawasa,” or snowsnakes. The idea of the game seems to be to find out who can throw a gawasa the greatest distance.

There is a great shout as one contestant rushes forward holding his gawasa by the tip and throws it with all his might into the trough. On it speeds like a living thing, gliding ahead with a slight side to side movement like a serpent springing forward. At the entrance of the trough a band of opponents is crying out discouraging remarks, while his own cheer squad is shouting its confidence and praises. A hundred feet down the trough an opponent waves his feathered cap over the gawasa as it speeds by, calling it “a fat woodchuck that cannot run,” while just a bit beyond, a friend also waves his cap and shouts a cabalistic word of magic. Finally the gawasa slows down and stops. Two trail markers rush to the spot and plunge colored sticks into the snow to mark the distance it has traveled. There is a referee from each team to insure absolute accuracy. In another moment another gawasa comes darting ahead, its leaden nose striking the tail of the first, nosing under it and throwing it out of the track, then speeding onward a score of paces ahead. The trail markers rush forward with other sticks and there is a great shout from the winning side.

THE SNOW SNAKE GAME.—From a drawing by Jesse Cornplanter.

Each team keeps its gawasa in leathern cases. A special “snowsnake doctor” draws out each as it is wanted and carefully wipes it with a soft fawn-skin, then waxes or oils the snake with some secret compound designed to make it slip with less friction over the icy path. These formulae are great secrets and a successful “doctor” is in great demand, and receives big fees.

We glance over into the square where boys are playing a game of javelins and hoops. The object, we soon discover, is to pierce the hoop with the javelins, thus stopping its progress as it rolls onward between the lines of contestants to its goal. This is also a popular game with the dogs, especially the puppies, who every now and again dash after the hoop, much to the disgust of the team throwing it. We hear the cry of “Sigwah, ahsteh, sigwah!” meaning get out, go away, and then hear the yelp of the poor pup as it is struck with a javelin, and whimpers away from this maddened crowd of humans.

In another portion of the field we see a group of large girls playing football with a small ball stuffed with deer hair. There is a grand melee as the two “centers” come together and kick at the ball, missing and striking each other’s shins. There is a peal of laughter as each falls in the snow from the impact, and rolls over upon the ball which other eager players strive to extricate with their feet, for their hands must not touch the ball. The game is a rough-and-tumble one, but no one is injured, for the kicking feet that fly about so nimbly are clad in soft-nosed moccasins.

We pass on and leave this scene of winter fun for a more sober group sitting on logs beneath the pines at the creek bank. It is a group of older men waiting for the return of a hunting party, and we learn that soon there is to be a great feast,—in fact a nine-day celebration in which all the people will participate. Out on the creek we also see little clusters of men fishing through the ice, and, judging by the shouts, fishing is good.

It may be well to pause here and carefully note the appearance of the men. It is not difficult to see that they are Indians. Their coppery red skins and raven black hair indicate this. Moreover, their dress and language permits no mistake in our conclusion. One man, more aged than the rest, is garbed in buckskin from head to foot. His shirt is long and of a beautiful white tan. About the neck, the chest, the shoulders, the sides and upon the cuffs there is a rich adornment of porcupine quill embroidery in various tasteful colors,—red, yellow and white being predominant. The leggings are of the same soft velvet tan, and embroidered at the bottoms in a deep cuff of quill work, which extends up the front in a thin line. Just below each knee is a garter embroidered with a finer appliqué than the rather coarse quill work. Close inspection shows it to be long hair from the “bell” of the moose. It is so flexible that, unlike quill work, it allows the garter to be tied snugly without stiffness. Beneath the shirt, though it hangs down nearly to the knees, the edge of a loin-cloth is just seen. Looking down at his feet you will observe a pair of beautiful moccasins. They are of the puckered toe type, with a single seam up the center of the foot, the leather being drawn up in neat puckers to conform to the shape of the foot. The flaps of the moccasins are also embroidered with quill work, in a running pattern looking like half circles and above which rise tendril designs,—looking like the zodiacal sign of Aries. It is the old man’s cap, however, which interests us most. It is not at all like the conventional war-bonnet which we have seen in picture and pageant. Instead it is like a closely fitting cap of fine fur, apparently beaver. It has a wide band about it, holding it tightly to the head. On the upper part of this band are close rows of dangling silver cones that jingle against one another as the old man moves his head. From the center of the hat rises a spool-like socket into which is inserted a fine eagle plume, that turns on a spindle within the socket. Around the spool and fastened to it are clusters of smaller feathers that fluff over the top of the cap in gay abandon. Across the old man’s breast is a worsted belt, red in color, and decorated with beads in a most interesting fashion. About the old man’s waist is a stouter belt of buckskin, into which is thrust a tomahawk, and from which dangles a pipe bag. Stooping over, he picks up a pair of overshoes made of woven cornhusk stuffed with pads of oiled rags and buffalo hair. Looking at the other men you observe that all have on similar crude looking over-moccasins, but that most of them are of thick oil-tanned buckskin leather, instead of cornhusk.

The old man walks away toward the village and we linger a moment to learn that his name is Jack Berry,^[8] and that he is considered an old-fashioned fellow, but that he commands great respect. We find, in fact, that the village just ahead is named after him, “Jack Berry’s Town,” and that it is one of the eight villages of Indians scattered over the Buffalo Creek tract.

It is now late in the afternoon and the sun is sinking over the forest to the west. Men and boys, and now and then a small group of women, walk swiftly toward the village. Some of the men are bending low under heavy loads of game, trussed up in burden-frames. Several men have strings of fish and a few men and women have long strings of white corn upon their shoulders.

Naturally we are hungry after our long journey through the brisk winter afternoon. We are also ready to sit down by the fire and dry our damp feet. Where shall we go, who will know us?

Everybody seems to know us, for everybody speaks, saying, “Nyahweh skanoh, Gyahdasey,” (“I am thankful to see you strong of body, my friend.”) We stop and talk with one group after another and tell them that we are strangers, rather tired and very hungry. Everybody smiles and says, “Yes, that’s so,” but not a soul invites us to supper and lodging. Our guide smiles at us and finally says, “You may go to any cabin here, walk in and sit down.” You may take off your shoes and put on any warm pair of moccasins you find hanging on the wall, you may pretend that you are dumb, and say nothing. No one will ask you a question, but every want that you have will be anticipated and every comfort of the lodge given to you, though it is the only bed as your couch, the only buffalo robe your cover, and your food the last bowl of soup. Among the Seneca you are welcome. No matter who you are, you are an honored guest and welcome to any home you chose to enter. It is for you to invite yourself to a home and honor it with your presence.

We look about with some concern, for most of the houses are small and look overcrowded. Finally, since we are in search of knowledge, as well as amusement and adventure, we choose a very commodious bark long house, from whose roof we see six fires sending up columns of black smoke. This place looks as if it might afford us company enough to satisfy our social inclinations and room enough to stow us away for the night. If we hesitated a moment we were soon convinced of our good judgment by the tempting odors of steaming maize puddings and hull-corn hominy, together with the appetizing smell of venison roasting over hot stones.

We pause at the entry of the lodge and note the wooden effigy of a bear’s head hanging in the gable of the building. This is a symbol that clans-folk of the Bear dwell within and that all “Bears” are welcome. However, as we know that neither Turtles nor Hawks, nor any other clansman or stranger will be denied admission, we push aside the buffalo robe that curtains the doorway and enter.

Before us is a vast hall some twenty-four feet wide and eighty feet long. On either side are low platforms, scarcely more than knee high from the earthen floor. Above are other platforms, but these are six or seven feet above and form a roof over the lower platforms. On the latter we see people lounging, sitting or reclining, as suits their inclination.

An elderly woman comes forward and greets us, and as she does so, several men also come forward. Some, dressed in trader’s cloth clothing grasp our hands in welcome, while an old man, evidently a relic of an older day, places his hands on our chests and says, “Strength be within you.” This we learn is the old Indian way of greeting, in the days before hand-shaking came into vogue.

Some one points out an unoccupied seat filled with robes and we are invited to place our luggage on the platform above. From a long pole, hanging from the beams that form the roof supports, hang braids of corn, forming a curtain that nearly makes our loft inaccessible. As we push our pack basket well toward the center of the platform we hear a squeal, and a seven-year-old boy who has been sleeping there on a pile of pelts darts over the corn pole and swings himself to the floor.

The whole building is replete with stores of food, and besides the corn, we see large quantities of smoked meat, dried fish, dried pumpkins and squashes and dried herbs of various kinds. The center of the lodge is a broad aisle and at every eight paces there is a fireplace on the floor, the smoke from which rises to the roof and escapes through large rectangular holes made by leaving off the bark roofing.

We join a group of men and learn from their conversation that they are discussing the great war of the white men, in which the Thirteen Fires overcame the British King. Alas, these Indians had fought for the King and as a punishment a mighty general had come against them with a cannon, burning their villages on the Genesee and sending them terror-stricken to their red-coated allies at Fort Niagara. Here they had endured a terrible winter of privation during which time hundreds died of disease, starvation and freezing. The British King had not done well by them and his agents had deceived them. It was Town Destroyer (Washington) who was their real friend, for it was he who said they might remain in their ancient seats. So here they were on Buffalo Creek, in the land of the Wenroe and the Neutral, peoples whom they had conquered a century and a half ago. Here was their refuge, but the contrast between this and their former secure position on the Genesee had disheartened them. The war and the flight had disorganized them, their old ideals had been broken, and the only safety seemed to be to avoid the white man. He brought all this trouble and his traders brought the fire water that made the young men crazy. He had brought a new religion too, and many of the villagers of the Buffalo tract had been converted to it and were trying to live in accordance with its teachings. Some of the men thought that this spoke the doom of the Indian race, while others thought it would be better to offset this movement by embracing the religion of Handsome Lake, a sachem from Allegany who was now preaching temperance and morality among the Indians at Allegany. Most of the men, however, thought that it was best to avoid all new schemes and philosophies. “The old way is the best,” we hear them say. “In the old way we know just where we stand. We are familiar with the methods of the old way: the new way has not been tried.”

Then someone says, “Jack Berry is going to go over to Handsome Lake. Maybe this is the right way. He is an intelligent man and his father was a white man, though he is more Indian than any of us in his manners and speech.”

Long the discussion goes on, and embraces one topic after another. There is nothing to do but to talk and this soon grows tiresome, for the same old topics are worn threadbare. Brains that are hungry for new ideas and for facts find no food. The mental life of the people, we quickly discover, is circumscribed. The people crave stimulation; of physical stimulation they have plenty, but of mental stimulation there is little indeed. This is one of the reasons why in the old days the men went on long tedious hunts, sought adventure, went on war parties, and played the game of death. “Better to die in the hurricane like a young oak that has been broken in the gale,” said they, “than to die because rot has set in and eaten up the heart.”

Here among the discouraged and broken people of the Buffalo tract, bitterness gnawed at every heart, and there was a sense of having been overwhelmed by some irresistible force. The people craved amusement, excitement, and the stimulation of the imagination. It was because of the lack of healthful means to procure these things that the men gambled so much, and drank the traders’ rum.

The evening meal is now ready and we find that the matron of our fire is dipping our hull-corn hominy. Everybody grabs a bark dish and some take out neatly carved wooden bowls. These are filled with the hominy and the group begins to eat, dipping the steaming corn with wooden spoons of large size. Now comes the meat portion, and each person is given from one to three pounds of roasted venison. This we eat with boiled corn bread, dipping the bread into a bowl of grease that is passed about among us. We have no forks, and the only thing that resembles one is a sharpened splinter of bone. We have our knives, however, and the meat is cut by holding it with the hands. If our greasy fingers bother us we have a box of corn husks upon which to wipe them. We then cast our “napkins” into the fire. At the close of the meal we receive bowls of “onegadaiyeh,” or hot fluid, which we find to be a fragrant tea made from the tips of hemlock boughs mixed with a dash of sassafras. Those who do not like this drink are given wintergreen “tea” sweetened with maple sugar. As we drink our tea a bright-eyed maiden brings us a bark tray with generous slices of sugar-nut bread, made by molding white corn flour with pulverized maple sugar into which is mixed hickory and hazel-nut meats, the whole being molded into a cake held into shape by husks, and then boiled until done. Everyone exclaims, “Oguhoh,” meaning “Delicious.”

A BARK COMMUNAL HOUSE

From a drawing by Jesse Cornplanter, son of Chief Edward Cornplanter. There were houses similar to this along Buffalo Creek as late as 1838.

The house is full of men, women and children. To each child there is a dog,—and a mighty well-behaved dog. Though they sit on their haunches looking hungry indeed, not one ventures near the mat or bench where the food is placed. Patiently they await a scrap of meat or a bone as it is thrown to them.

One is impressed with the various costumes of the throng. Some are dressed in military coats, some wear red flannel shirts made in coat style, with the flaps worn outside, some wear leather leggings, and some have cloth or buckskin trousers. Some of the women, as well as the men, wear tall beaver hats with silver bands around them. Everybody wears a blanket. Some are red, some are green or yellow, but nearly all wear gray or blue blankets. The women have especially fine blankets of blue broadcloth, beautifully beaded in floral patterns at the corners, and having geometrical designs around the borders. Only a few of the men wear boots, the majority wearing the ancestral moccasin. The skirts of the women are of broadcloth, beaded like the blankets, though several of the matrons have skirts of buckskin. The women wear pantalets, with beaded or quilled bottoms. They also wear small head shawls, and their hair is neatly braided. The maidens wear two braids, but the married women wear one, looped up behind and tied with a ribbon or a quilled strip of soft doeskin.

The house looks gloomy inside, for it is rather smoky, but the liveliness of the children and the puppies makes up for the darkened interior. If one does not wish to be walked over he had better crawl up on his bed and make himself comfortable in a buffalo robe. At best the lodge only shuts out the wind, and the fires add but little warmth. With the abundance of fresh air one does not feel oppressed by the numerous people on every hand. No one in this dwelling has that unhappy disease that infects the dwellers in the tight and warm log houses,—the disease that eats the lungs and makes people fade away like ghosts of their real selves. The abundance of fresh air and the creosote from the smoke, together with exercise out of doors in the sunshine, makes these dwellers in the long bark house lively and healthy.

Again the men fall into groups about the fire, and again they talk of the events about them. One tells of a British agent who wants the Indians to come over to Canada and dwell with their brethren who followed Chief Brant to the Grand River after the war. A Mohawk Sachem had been with the British agent and had confirmed his description of the beautiful land on the other side of the Niagara, where the Iroquois Confederacy might once more rise from its ashes and become a great power. They had found but few followers, however, for the Buffalo Seneca were loyal to the memory of Washington, the great White Father, who just a month ago had died. “We are now the children of Town Destroyer,” the British agent had been told. “We shall abide here where our fathers fought. This is their land and though we have been hurt in this conflict we will not run away, like dogs whipped, and who scamper whimpering to a hollow log. We shall stay here and be men.” It was in vain that the agent had appealed to their natural desire for revenge.

As the night grows darker, a shout is heard outside and all the children run to the door. “Dajoh, dajoh!” they exclaim, and rushing out surround a tall man of middle age, one taking his hand and leading him in. We can hear the shout of “Hoskwisäonh, the story teller,—the story teller has come!”

He is a jovial-looking fellow, this story teller, and his entrance to the lodge puts the young people in a state of suppressed excitement. Even the older people are pleasantly disposed toward him, and one matron draws forth a bench which she sets before the central fire. Several cornhusk mats are then placed around on the floor and the company draws into a circle, at least such a circle as the building will permit.

The story teller wears a long white flannel toga, or overshirt bound with blue ribbon. It is embroidered richly with colored moose hair. His gustoweh or cap is of soft doeskin quilled in herringbone patterns, and the feathers that droop from the crest spindle are the white down feathers of the heron. The spinning feather at the tip is from the tail of a young eagle and from its tip rises a little tassel of red moose hair held on by a bit of fish glue. He has two bags, one containing his pipe and tobacco, and the other filled with mysterious lumps. Just what these are everyone waits patiently to see, for they are the trophies that “remind” him of his stories,—bear teeth, shells, bark dolls, strings of wampum, bunches of feathers, bits of bark with hieroglyphs upon them, and the claws of animals.

He takes his seat and after smoking a pipeful of sacred tobacco throws some of this fragrant herb upon the fire, at the same time saying a ritualistic prayer to the unseen powers, about whom he is soon to discourse. Finally he exclaims, “Hauh, oneh djadaondyus,” and all the people respond, “Hauh oneh!” He plunges his hand into his mystery bag and draws forth a bear’s tusk. “Hoh!” he says. “The bear! This is a tale of nyagwai‘´. Do you all now listen!” And then comes the story of the orphaned boy who lived with his wicked uncle and how he was rescued from burial in a fox hole and cared for by a mother bear. Another trinket comes forth, and again another, as a new tale unfolds. When the night has grown old, and the youngsters show signs of weariness by falling asleep, the story teller closes his bag, carefully ties it and then starts to smoke again.

The listeners have been thrilled by his dramatic recitation, they have been moved to uproarious laughter or made to shudder with awe. They have been profoundly stirred and their eyes glisten with pleasurable excitement. Everyone files past the story teller with a small gift,—a brooch, a carved nut, a small bag of tobacco or a strand of sinew for thread. No gift is large and most gifts are pinches of native tobacco. The story teller then finds a comfortable bed.

The children climb into their lofts by aid of notched ladders, the old people repair to their compartments, pull down the robe curtains, and soon all but a watcher or two are asleep, dreaming of the folk-beasts and the heroes of the story teller’s tales. The more imaginative continue the adventures that have been told, and journey into dreamland to meet the myth-beings and learn of the mysteries that only slumberland can reveal.

Such is the setting of the story teller and the atmosphere in which the legends of the Seneca were told, in the days of early Buffalo. These old-time tales can scarcely be appreciated unless one knows and feels the circumstances under which they were related. Then, too, we may dream as the Seneca dreamed and know why he loved the story teller.

In the morning we are awakened by the noise of the corn pounders. “Ka-doom, ka-doom, ka-doom!” they sound as the pestle strikes the corn in the mortar and crushes it into hominy or meal, as the case may be. Children then begin to tumble out of bed and run about the lodge, but most of them are sent back to their warm robes until the morning meal has been prepared.

As we open our eyes we see little light, for we are within one of the bed compartments, over the front of which hang long buffalo robe curtains, shutting out the light and securing us from the sight of others. The head and the foot of our sleeping quarters likewise are partitioned off by screens of bark, strengthened by upright poles. At our feet are little cupboards where we have stored our clothing and valuables. Over our heads hang uncertain bundles, attached to the parallel poles that form the platform above us. These contain the treasures and personal possessions of our host, whose bed we occupy. As we dress and emerge from our compartment, we feel the cool air of the great hallway and smell the smoke of the lodge fires. We look at the underside of the bed and find it walled up by bark over a layer of parallel poles. Beneath this bed are the greater treasures of our host, treasures that no one may touch or see save himself. He reaches them by lifting up the floor of the bed, a floor made of slats laced together. No person, not the owner of the compartment, would ever dare pry beneath that bed. It is a crime as black as calumny and worse than murder, for it is a violation of fundamental laws. As the women come from their compartments, and throw back their curtains upon the platform above, we catch a glimpse of “bed rooms” neatly kept and hung with furs and pelts. Some are embroidered and some are painted with signs and symbols. We note also their neat bundles and quilled bark boxes at the foot of the bed or over their heads. We long to pry into these secrets and to discover just what is in this mysterious boudoir, but modesty forbids anything more than a fleeting glance. Each compartment is its occupant’s “castle” and must not be violated by so much as a curious look.

As we make ready for a bit of corn bread and a large bowl of soup, the liquor in which the bread has been boiled, we note the ascending smoke from the fireplaces on the earthen floor. The drafts are regulated by opening one door-flap or the other. The great ridgepole and the rafters of the lodge are black with soot. The roof is pitched, and the gable is made by a pole placed above and resting upon the plate-poles, across the front and rear of the building. These support the inner ridge pole upon which rest the tops of the roof supports or rafters. These are stiffened by inner poles that run parallel with the ridge pole and rest upon the end gable rafters. All are tied in place with ropes of bark or fastened with pegs, some of them spikes of deer antler. On either side of the door are the major roof supports which being securely driven in the ground rise to the gable rafter, giving a stronger support than could possibly be given by a central post. The building is absolutely rigid. The triple plaiting with bark, most of it elm, placed the long way of the grain, instead of up and down, makes the building wind-proof and comfortable enough to people inured to the weather.

We note with a great deal of interest the long rows of corn placed along the roof poles that rest just above the edge of the upper platforms. These braids of corn form curtains that screen off the upper platforms except in places where there are small openings into which the lodge matrons may thrust their possessions. It is there that they keep their bowls of bark and wood, also stores of dried food. We are told that there are barrels of bark up there filled with dried and smoked meats of various kinds, also stores of vegetable foods and herbs.

The shed of the house interests us greatly. It is an entry way attached to the lodge and has a slightly sloping roof. It is large and roomy and here on one side is piled a great quantity of wood and on the other are boxes and barrels of shelled corn.

We are impressed by the neatness of everything and by the compact manner in which food and clothing is stowed away. Of course, in a modern sense, the things we see are not clean, by any means, for dust and soot cover everything not within arm’s reach. The place reeks of smoke, but we have grown so accustomed to this that we scarcely notice it, save when the wind changes direction and the smoke fills our eyes.

Around the fires are mats woven of corn husk, over a warp of twisted elm bark fiber. Upon these we sit as we are given wooden bowls which are filled with soup. The big ladle which we see used to dispense our portion holds a bowlful. It is carved from curly maple and has a dove carved on the upper part of the handle. Our smaller spoons are carved in a similar manner but they hold only a white man’s half cupful. There is nothing formal or full about this breakfast and we note the frugality of the people. The second meal will be the hearty one.

As we sit on the mat before the fire we note how conservative some of the older people are. One or two have bowls or pots of baked clay, rare relics of the earlier day before the white man’s brass kettles made the fragile clay pot an obsolete thing. We note that one pot has a serrated rim which flares out, while the other has a tall collar decorated with parallel lines arranged in triangular plats. Very gently do these old folk handle their clay pots which they call “gadjĕⁿ”. Several of the old men take from their pouches ancient clay pipes, relics of the days when they lived beyond the Genesee. These are molded with bowls in the shape of raccoons and have copper eyes. The stems are rather short, not more than eight inches, and the pipe is not held in the mouth continually but lifted to the lips to allow an inhalation, and then taken down. These relics we learn are sacred things and are to be buried with the old men when they die.

Breakfast is over and there is little for the men to do. Their autumnal hunt has filled the larder with game. There is plenty of corn, and the younger men supply the fresh meat and fish needed. Winter is a time when everyone clings to the hearth fire, save upon ceremonial occasion, or for the usual winter sports. But even these become tiresome, and the minds of the people crave stimulation. Even the gambling games do not supply the right sort of awakening. The minds of the people are hungry and demand a feeding even upon husks. They demand that their imaginations be kindled and that from sordid life they be lifted to the fairylands of pure imagination. The story teller who can lift the individual out of self and transport him to the land of magic, where he may picture himself a super-man performing mighty feats, is in great demand. Absurdity counts for nothing; what though the myth or legend is impossible,—this does not matter. It gives the hungry mind and yearning soul wings upon which it may fly away from a real earth to the land of “I-wish-I-could.” In a world where reliable facts are few and where critical investigation is impossible, the imagination must be fed. The story teller of the lodge supplies that food. He is the storehouse of all knowledge, the repository of ancestral lore. To the untutored mind of the aborigine he supplies what is almost as necessary as food itself, for while man is a combination of body and mind, mind must have its sustenance no less than body; it must have its sweets and its stimulants no less than the physical nature. And so the story teller weaves the spell, with all his rhetoric and oratory,—and hungry minds gather round to feast....

Time goes by and the world has changed. There is a different order of things. The power of the Seneca has gone, and the pale invader has taken over all the land, save tiny areas in out-of-the-way places. Still the Seneca has not relinquished his hold entirely; in various bands he still lives in tribal estate. But how different is the Seneca today! His life is that of the surrounding white man, in an economic sense. Little remains to distinguish him as of another cultural order, but there is still enough to mark him as aboriginal. He still preserves his rites and ceremonies, and on the reservations at Cattaraugus, Allegany and Tonawanda he still tells the folk-tales that his ancestors loved, and these remain unaltered to this very day.