robe of fur, and stowed away in the lodge of its
keeper until it is again required. The war pipe is simply a tomahawk,
with a perforated handle communicating with the bowl, which is
opposite the sharp edge of the weapon. When the Indians joined the
British as allies during the American war, they had to be supplied
with iron tomahawks of the native pattern, before they could enter the
field as allies.

[Illustration: Sculptured pipe.]

Many tribes of Indians use herbs of various kinds to mix with tobacco
to reduce its strength, as they are in the habit of exhaling the smoke
from the nostrils, and not from the mouth. By the adoption of this
means a much smaller quantity of tobacco suffices to produce the
soothing influence on the nervous system so well known to votaries of
the weed.

Longfellow, in his great Indian epic of the Song of Hiawatha, has
portrayed with graphic power in pleasing verse the mysterious legends
describing the birth or institution of the peace-pipe by Gitche
Manito, "The Master of Life;" and a few extracts from "Hiawatha" may
be interesting to illustrate the deep significance of the ideas which
the Indian holds regarding his relations to the Great Spirit of the
Universe, and of the esteem with which he views the peace-pipe, which
in the words of Catlin "has shed its thrilling fumes over the land,
and soothed the fury of the relentless savage."

Longfellow, in the opening of his poem, says:--

Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple,
Who have faith in God and Nature,
Who believe that in all ages
Every human heart is human,
That in even savage bosoms
There are longings, yearnings, strivings,
For the good they comprehend not,
That the feeble hands and helpless,
Groping blindly in the darkness,
Touch God's right hand in that darkness
And are lifted up and strengthened;--
Listen to this simple story,
To the song of Hiawatha.

He then describes the making of the pipe from the great Red Pipe-Stone
Quarry, as follows:--

"On the Mountains of the Prairie,
On the great Red Pipe-Stone Quarry,
Gitche Manito, the mighty,
He the Master of Life, descending,
On the red crags of the quarry
Stood erect, and called the nations,
Called the tribes of men together.
From his foot-prints flowed a river,
Leaped into the light of morning,
O'er the precipice plunging downward
Gleamed like Ishkoodah, the comet.
And the Spirit stooping earthward,
With his fing