The Indian sits in the tabernacle of the mighty forest or on the heights
of some deserted and wind-swept mesa, beats his tomtom or drones song upon
song, prays to the Great Mystery, pleads with the fires of the sun to give
him strength and life and health, and calls the sun his father. The
whispering winds tell his tale to the clouds. He peers into the depths of
the stars, watches the aurora as the death dance of the spirits, answers
the high call of the thunder as the voice of the Great Mystery, utters the
cry of his soul to the lightnings--the arrows of taowity--communes with the
rivers and the lakes, the moon, and the legion of wild beasts, and all of
it with a pitiful longing that his days of fasting and his vicarious
devotion may bring upon his life and his tribe the favour of the gods.

These primitive men hold time and money and ambition as nothing. But a
dream, or a cloud in the sky, or a bird flying across the trail from the
wrong direction, or a change of the wind will challenge their deepest
thoughts. To the Indian mind all signs are symbolic. Their ceremonies
are as complicated as any of ancient Hebrew or Greek tradition. The
Indian aspires to be a great hunter, he seeks fame as a noble warrior; he
struggles for the eagle feathers of distinction, but his greatest longing
is to become a Medicine Man and know the Great Mystery. All medicine
people of the tribes carry on their necks, or in a pouch at the belt, some
sacred thing used in their magic practices--the claw of a bear, the rattle
of a snake, a bird's wing, the tooth of an elk, a bit of tobacco. Every
Indian carries his individual medicine, and his medicine is good or bad
according to his success. If he finds a feather at wrong angle in his
path, his medicine is bad for that day. The Indian fasts and dances and
chants, using his mind, his spirit, and his body as pliable instruments in
the making of his prayer. He finds in the veritable exhaustion of his
body the spirit path made clear for his dreams, until the very stars seem
as the eyes of the gods, and the sighing of the pines comes to him as the
rustle of eagle wings to bear his spirit to loftier realms. Instead of
the common acceptation that the Indian has no religion whatever, every
single act of his life carries with it some ceremonial function, and his
whole being is surrounded by a shining host of ceremonial spirits. The
Indian goes with prayer thoughts to the water. His bath is a sac