We glance over into the square where boys are playing a game of javelins and hoops. The object, we soon discover, is to pierce the hoop with the javelins, thus stopping its progress as it rolls onward between the lines of contestants to its goal. This is also a popular game with the dogs, especially the puppies, who every now and again dash after the hoop, much to the disgust of the team throwing it. We hear the cry of “Sigwah, ahsteh, sigwah!” meaning get out, go away, and then hear the yelp of the poor pup as it is struck with a javelin, and whimpers away from this maddened crowd of humans.
In another portion of the field we see a group of large girls playing football with a small ball stuffed with deer hair. There is a grand melee as the two “centers” come together and kick at the ball, missing and striking each other’s shins. There is a peal of laughter as each falls in the snow from the impact, and rolls over upon the ball which other eager players strive to extricate with their feet, for their hands must not touch the ball. The game is a rough-and-tumble one, but no one is injured, for the kicking feet that fly about so nimbly are clad in soft-nosed moccasins.
We pass on and leave this scene of winter fun for a more sober group sitting on logs beneath the pines at the creek bank. It is a group of older men waiting for the return of a hunting party, and we learn that soon there is to be a great feast,—in fact a nine-day celebration in which all the people will participate. Out on the creek we also see little clusters of men fishing through the ice, and, judging by the shouts, fishing is good.
It may be well to pause here and carefully note the appearance of the men. It is not difficult to see that they are Indians. Their coppery red skins and raven black hair indicate this. Moreover, their dress and language permits no mistake in our conclusion. One man, more aged than the rest, is garbed in buckskin from head to foot. His shirt is long and of a beautiful white tan. About the neck, the chest, the shoulders, the sides and upon the cuffs there is a rich adornment of porcupine quill embroidery in various tasteful colors,—red, yellow and white being predominant. The leggings are of the same soft velvet tan, and embroidered at the bottoms in a deep cuff of quill work, which extends up the front in a thin line. Just below each knee is a garter embroidered with a finer appliqué than the rather coarse quill work. Close inspection shows it to be long hair from the “bell” of the moose. It is so flexible that, unlike quill work, it allows the garter to be tied snugly without stiffness. Beneath the shirt, though it hangs down nearly to the knees, the edge of a loin-cloth is just seen. Looking down at his feet you will observe a pair of beautiful moccasins. They are of the puckered toe type, with a single seam up the center of the foot, the leather being drawn up in neat puckers to conform to the shape of the foot. The flaps of the moccasins are also embroidered with quill work, in a running pattern looking like half circles and above which rise tendril designs,—looking like the zodiacal sign of Aries. It is the old man’s cap, however, which interests us most. It is not at all like the conventional war-bonnet which we have seen in picture and pageant. Instead it is like a closely fitting cap of fine fur, apparently beaver. It has a wide band about it, holding it tightly to the head. On the upper part of this band are close rows of dangling silver cones that jingle against one another as the old man moves his head. From the center of the hat rises a spool-like socket into which is inserted a fine eagle plume, that turns on a spindle within the socket. Around the spool and fastened to it are clusters of smaller feathers that fluff over the top of the cap in gay abandon. Across the old man’s breast is a worsted belt, red in color, and decorated with beads in a most interesting fashion. About the old man’s waist is a stouter belt of buckskin, into which is thrust a tomahawk, and from which dangles a pipe bag. Stooping over, he picks up a pair of overshoes made of woven cornhusk stuffed with pads of oiled rags and buffalo hair. Looking at the other men you observe that all have on similar crude looking over-moccasins, but that most of them are of thick oil-tanned buckskin leather, instead of cornhusk.
The old man walks away toward the village and we linger a moment to learn that his name is Jack Berry,[[8]] and that he is considered an old-fashioned fellow, but that he commands great respect. We find, in fact, that the village just ahead is named after him, “Jack Berry’s Town,” and that it is one of the eight villages of Indians scattered over the Buffalo Creek tract.
It is now late in the afternoon and the sun is sinking over the forest to the west. Men and boys, and now and then a small group of women, walk swiftly toward the village. Some of the men are bending low under heavy loads of game, trussed up in burden-frames. Several men have strings of fish and a few men and women have long strings of white corn upon their shoulders.
Naturally we are hungry after our long journey through the brisk winter afternoon. We are also ready to sit down by the fire and dry our damp feet. Where shall we go, who will know us?
Everybody seems to know us, for everybody speaks, saying, “Nyahweh skanoh, Gyahdasey,” (“I am thankful to see you strong of body, my friend.”) We stop and talk with one group after another and tell them that we are strangers, rather tired and very hungry. Everybody smiles and says, “Yes, that’s so,” but not a soul invites us to supper and lodging. Our guide smiles at us and finally says, “You may go to any cabin here, walk in and sit down.” You may take off your shoes and put on any warm pair of moccasins you find hanging on the wall, you may pretend that you are dumb, and say nothing. No one will ask you a question, but every want that you have will be anticipated and every comfort of the lodge given to you, though it is the only bed as your couch, the only buffalo robe your cover, and your food the last bowl of soup. Among the Seneca you are welcome. No matter who you are, you are an honored guest and welcome to any home you chose to enter. It is for you to invite yourself to a home and honor it with your presence.
We look about with some concern, for most of the houses are small and look overcrowded. Finally, since we are in search of knowledge, as well as amusement and adventure, we choose a very commodious bark long house, from whose roof we see six fires sending up columns of black smoke. This place looks as if it might afford us company enough to satisfy our social inclinations and room enough to stow us away for the night. If we hesitated a moment we were soon convinced of our good judgment by the tempting odors of steaming maize puddings and hull-corn hominy, together with the appetizing smell of venison roasting over hot stones.
We pause at the entry of the lodge and note the wooden effigy of a bear’s head hanging in the gable of the building. This is a symbol that clans-folk of the Bear dwell within and that all “Bears” are welcome. However, as we know that neither Turtles nor Hawks, nor any other clansman or stranger will be denied admission, we push aside the buffalo robe that curtains the doorway and enter.