The body was laid upon the pile of fagots, and it was then securely bound to an upright stake and the torch applied. Two of the chanters took their places at the head and foot of the body, and the third began running about the pyre, chanting in a loud voice the virtues of the departed.
The Indians are natural poets. The simpleness of diction, the imagery of thought and directness of statement, render their improvised measures exceedingly attractive. Much of the charm of their poetry is lost in the translation and the writer cannot give, with any degree of accuracy a rendition of the poems thus weirdly chanted about the blazing pile. The following will give an idea of the words of the chanters:
"He is dead, he is dead!
It is Sutuma our chief, our beloved.
He lived an hundred years and did no evil.
He was the son of an hundred chiefs and he was wise.
His words were like drops of water on thirsty ground.
His deeds were good and they will live forever."
This poet continued to chant his improvised epic as he ran about the pyre, till he became exhausted, when he exchanged places with one of his companions who took up the strain and went on:
THE FUNERAL PYRE
From photograph by C. C. Pierce & Co.
"The sun is darkened because our chief is gone.
The stars weep dewdrops because he is dead.
The wind sings sorrowfully because he lies low.
When he was alive the earth was very glad.
His household rejoiced because of his good sayings.
His braves were fearless because he was strong.
He was great, he was good, he was full of wisdom.
He is dead and the earth groans with its sorrow."