It was when the corn was ripe that the Corn-Feast began. The plentiful crop of Indian maize was gathered together in one place, and the Mohawk girls assembled with laugh and song to celebrate the harvest. The festival took place in a field in the open air. The warriors and old men, not deigning to take part in this woman's frolic, sat at one side, though not far away, and lazily smoked their pipes. They only betrayed now and then, and by the merest twinkle of an eye, that they took any notice of what was going on. The aged squaws hung on the outskirts of the group of girls, urging them on with jests and shrill screams of laughter. The young squaws were busily employed husking the ears of corn, and throwing them together into heaps, after which they braided them into bunches of twenty[48] to be hung up and dried. This is preparatory to shelling, pounding, and making the corn into cakes of fine flour for future use. But the part of the whole process which pleases the young squaws best is the husking. They sing together snatches of song, and toss the ears of corn gayly from one to another. All the while they keep a keen eye on each separate ear as the soft husk is torn from it, and the silky tassels fall loosely away from the thick set rows of juicy kernels. But what has happened to Tekakwitha there in the midst of them? How they shout with laughter! Why is she blushing so? In her hand she holds a bright red ear of corn instead of a white one, and a saucy girl calls out the name of a young hunter,—most likely of the one from whom Tekakwitha so recently hid away. A red ear of corn is always the sign of a brave admirer. That is why it is watched for so eagerly. "Here he is," they say to the bashful girl; "see, he has come to woo you again!" She, who is easiest teased of them all on a subject like this, feels like running away once more to escape their jests, or throwing the ear of corn at the saucy girl. But she is brave though shy, and a maker of fun herself; so she does not move, but keeps her eyes well open and awaits her chance. As good fortune would have it, she soon spies her mischievous companion unsheathing a crooked ear of corn, tapering to a point and quite bent over, like a queer little man. "Wagemin! wagemin!" she calls out to the unlucky girl, "Wagemin! Paimosaid!" Although they have often plagued Tekakwitha in the lodge with being Algonquin rather than Mohawk, she does not hesitate on this occasion to recall the song of her mother's race, "Wagemin! wagemin! Paimosaid!"—which are the words sung in the North and West when a crooked ear of corn is found. Enough of Algonquin tradition, learned from their captives, lingered among the Mohawks for them to understand these words, which mean, "The little old corn-thief,—walker at night!"
The laugh is now on the saucy girl who called attention to Tekakwitha. Then catching at the suggestion conveyed by the word "Wagemin!" they break forth gayly into the cereal chorus of the Algonquin Corn-Song. Playfully and with many gestures words like those which follow are recited by one of the girls, alternating again and again with the chorus.
Schoolcraft's version of the merry Indian Corn-Song is as follows:—
Cereal Chorus. Wagemin! wagemin!
Thief in the blade,
Blight of the corn-field,
Paimosaid!
Recitative. See you not traces while pulling the leaf,
Plainly depicting the taker and thief?
See you not signs by the ring and the spot,
How the man crouched as he crept in the lot?
Is it not plain, by this mark on the stalk,
That he was heavily bent in his walk?
Old man, be nimble! The old should be good,
But thou art a cowardly thief of the wood.
Chorus. Wagemin! wagemin! etc.
Where, little taker of things not your own,—
Where is your rattle, your drum, and your bone?
Surely a walker so nimble of speed,—
Surely he must be a juggler indeed.
See how he stoops as he breaks off the ear!
Nushka! he seems for a moment to fear.
Walker, be nimble,—oh, walker, be brief!
Hooh! it is plain the old man is the thief.
Chorus. Wagemin! wagemin! etc.
Wabuma! corn-taker, why do you lag?
None but the stars see you,—fill up your bag.
Why do you linger to gaze as you pull?
Tell me, my little man, is it most full?
A—tia! see, a red spot on the leaf,
Surely a warrior can't be a thief! Ah, little night thief, be dear your pursuit, And leave here no print of your dastardly foot.
Chorus. Wagemin! wagemin!
Thief in the blade,
Blight of the corn-field,
Paimosaid!