as a mourning ceremony by them.  That mutilation of a finger by removing one or more joints, so generally observed among the Minnetarree Indians at the Fort Berthold, Dak., Agency, is not here seen, although the old men of these tribes inform me that it was an ancient custom among their women, on the occasion of the burial of a husband, to cut off a portion of a finger and have it suspended in the tree above his body.  I have, however, yet to 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!