"Oh, Machecawa, my brother, it is not well that you grieve."
Again he turned to his chief. "Our sister is gone, oh, my brother," he continued, "but you shall see her again. But she shall be changed, and you will not know her; but when you enter the Land of the Hereafter then you must sing always this little song, and so she will know you."
In a clear and true tenor old O'Jawescawa chanted a weird, minor air with tearful falling cadences.
"And when she hears that song," he went on, "then she will answer it with this"—and he sang through another little song.
The long-drawn, plaintive chords, the sense of awe inspired by the darkness and the firelight, and of the grave sad prayer, caused Mrs. Wright and her young flock to sob aloud.
"And so in that way," concluded O'Jawescawa, "you shall know each other."
The young men bore the remains to a grave that had been dug a short distance away in a pine grove. After the earth had been filled in, three of the women knelt and put together a miniature wigwam of birch-bark, complete in every detail. Then O'Jawescawa began again to speak, addressing the occupant of the grave in a low tone of confidence.
"O Newitchewagan, our sister," said he, "I place this bow and these arrows in your lodge that you may be armed on the Long Journey.
"O Niwitchiwagan, our sister, I place these snow-shoes in your lodge that you may be fleet on the Long Journey."*