o see an
example of this having been done by any of the Indians now living,
and the custom must have fallen into disuse more than seventy years
ago.

In regard to the period of mourning, I would say that there does not
now appear to be, and, so far as I can learn, never was, any fixed
period of mourning, but it would seem that, like some of the whites,
they mourn when the subject is brought to their minds by some remark
or other occurrence. It is not unusual at the present time to hear a
man or woman cry and exclaim, "O, my poor husband!" "O, my poor
wife!" or "O, my poor child!" as the case may be, and, upon
inquiring, learn that the event happened several years before.
I have elsewhere mentioned that in some cases much of the personal
property of the deceased was and is reserved from burial with the
body, and forms the basis of a gambling party. I shall conclude my
remarks upon the burial customs, &c., of these Indians by an account
of this, which they designate as the "ghost's gamble."

The account of the game will be found in another part of this paper.

As illustrative of the preparation of the dead Indian warrior for the
tomb, a translation of Schiller's beautiful burial song is here given.
It is believed to be by Bulwer, and for it the writer is indebted to the
kindness of Mr. Benjamin Drew, of Washington, D.C.:

BURIAL OF THE CHIEFTAIN.

See on his mat, as if of yore,
How lifelike sits he here;
With the same aspect that he wore
When life to him was dear.
But where the right arm's strength, and where
The breath he used to breathe
To the Great Spirit aloft in air,
The peace-pipe's lusty wreath?
And where the hawk-like eye, alas!
That wont the deer pursue
Along the waves of rippling grass,
Or fields that shone with dew?
Are these the limber, bounding feet
That swept the winter snows?
What startled deer was half so fleet,
Their speed outstripped the roe's.
These hands that once the sturdy bow
Could supple from its pride,
How stark and helpless hang they now
Adown the stiffened side!
Yet weal to him! at peace he strays
Where never fall the snows,
Where o'er the meadow springs the maize
That mortal never sows;
Where birds are blithe in every brake,
Where forests teem with deer,
Where glide the fish through every lake,
One chase from year to year!
With spirits now he feasts above;