“At the first ‘tunk!’ the bucks stiffen to their feet and cast off the blankets.  Feathers, paint, an’ bells! they blaze an’ tinkle in the moonlight with a subdooed but savage elegance.  They skates out onto the grass, stilt-laig, an’ each buck for himse’f.  They go skootin’ about, an’ weave an’ turn an’ twist like these yere water-bugs jiggin’ it on the surface of some pond.  Sometimes a buck’ll lay his nose along the ground while he dances—­sleigh bells jinglin’, feathers tossin’!  Then he’ll straighten up ontil he looks like he’s eight foot tall; an’ they shore throws themse’fs with a heap of heart an’ sperit.

“It’s as well they does.  If you looks clost you observes a brace of bucks, and each packin’ a black-snake whip.  Them’s kettle-tenders,—­floor managin’ the baile they be; an’ if a buck who’s dancin’ gets preeoccupied with thinkin’ of something else an’ takes to prancin’ an’ dancin’ listless, the way the kettle-tenders pours the leather into him to remind him his fits of abstraction is bad form, is like a religious ceremony.  An’ it ain’t no bad idee; said kettle-tenders shore promotes what Colonel Sterett calls the elan of the dancin’ bucks no end.

“After your eyes gets used to this whirlin’ an’ skatin’ an’ skootin’ an’ weavin’ in an’ out, you notes two bucks, painted to a finish an’ feathered to the stars! who out-skoots an’ out-whirls an’ out-skates their fellow bucks like four to one.  They gets their nose a little lower one time an’ then stands higher in the air another, than is possible to the next best buck.  Them enthoosiasts ain’t Osages at all; which they’re niggers—­full-blood Senegambians they be, who’s done j’ined the tribe.  These Round House festivals with the paint, the feathers, an’ the bells, fills their trop’cal hearts plumb full, an’ forgettin’ all about the white folks an’ their gyarded ways, they’re the biggest Injuns to warm a heel that night.

“Saucy Willow is up by the damaged rag-stick buck lendin’ a mouthful or two of cl’ar, bell-like alto yelps to the harmony of the evenin’.  Bill who’s a wonder in feathers an’ bells, an’ whose colour-scheme would drive a temp’rance lecturer to drink, while zippin’ about in the moonlight gets his eye on her.  Mighty likely Bill’s smitten; but he don’t let on, the fam’ly like I relates, allers ropin’ up a gent’s bride.  It’s good bettin’ this yere Saucy Willow counts up Bill.  If she does, however,—­no more than Bill,—­she never tips her hand.  The Saucy Willow yelps on onconcerned, like her only dream of bliss is to show the coyotes what vocal failures they be.

“It’s a week after the Ingraska, an’ Bill’s fam’ly holds a round-up to pick Bill out a squaw.  He ain’t present, havin’ the savey to go squanderin’ off to play Injun poker with some Creek sports he hears has money over on the Polecat.  Bill’s fam’ly makes quite a herd, bucks an’ squaws buttin’ in on the discussion permiscus an’ indiscrim’nate.  Shore! the squaws has