“Followin’ the first yell of the kettle-tenders, the young bucks begins to paint up for the hilarity.  You might see ’em all over camp, for it’s August weather an’ the walls of the tents an’ teepees is looped up to let in the cool, daubin’ the ocher on their faces an’ braidin’ the feathers into their ha’r.  This organisin’ for a baile ain’t no bagatelle, an’ two hours is the least wherein any se’f-respectin’ buck who’s out to make a centre shot on the admiration of the squaws an’ wake the envy of rival bucks, can lay on the pigments, so he paints away at his face, careful an’ acc’rate, sizin’ up results meanwhile in a jimcrow lookin’ glass.  At last he’s as radiant as a rainbow, an’ after garterin’ each laig with a belt of sleigh-bells jest below the knee, he regyards himse’f with a fav’rable eye an’ allows he’s ondoubted the wildest wag in his set.

“Each buck arrives at the Round House with his blanket wropped over his head so as not to blind the onwary with his splendours.  It’s mebby second drink time after sundown an’ the full moon is swingin’ above effulgent.  The bucks who’s doo to dance sets about one side of the Round House on a board bench; the squaws—­not bein’ in on the proposed activities—­occupies the other half, squattin’ on the ground.  Some of ’em packs their papooses tied on to a fancy-ribboned, highly beaded board, an’ this they makes a cradle of by restin’ one end on the ground an’ the other on their toe, rockin’ the same meanwhile with a motion of the foot.  Thar’s a half hoop over the head-end of these papoose boards, hung with bells for the papoose to get infantile action on an’ amoose his leesure.

“The bucks settin’ about their side of the Round House, still wrops themse’fs in their blankets so as not to dazzle the squaws to death preematoor.  At last the music peals forth.  The music confines itse’f to a bass drum—­paleface drum it is—­which is staked out hor’zontal about a foot high from the grass over in the centre.  The orchestra is a decrepit buck with a rag-wropped stick; with this weepon he beats the drum, chantin’ at the same time a pensive refrain.

“Mebby a half-dozen squaws, with no papooses yet to distract ’em, camps ‘round this virchuoso with the rag-stick, an’ yoonites their girlish howls with his.  You-all can put down a bet it don’t remind you none of nightingales or mockin’ birds; but the Injuns likes it.  Which their simple sperits wallows in said warblin’s!  But to my notion they’re more calc’lated to loco a henhawk than furnish inspiration for a dance.

“‘Tunk! tunk! tunk! tunk!’ goes this rag-stick buck, while the squaws chorus along with, ’Hy-yah! hy-yah! hy-yah-yah-yah!  Hy-yah! hy-yah! hy-yah-yah-yah!’ an’ all grievous, an’ make no mistake!