Four societies of priests conduct the elaborate rite at Walpi. It is not held at Sichumavi or Hano, but is conducted at Oraibi and the three villages of the middle mesa. "The public dances are conducted mainly by two of the societies, whose actions are of a phallic nature. These two act as chorus in the kiva when the fire is made, but the sacred flame is kindled by the latter two societies.... For several days before the ceremony began, large quantities of wood were piled near the kiva hatches, and after the rites began, this fuel was carried down into the rooms and continually fed to the flames of the new fire by an old man, who never left his task. The flames of the new fire were regarded with reverence; no one was allowed to light a cigarette from it or otherwise profane it."
On the first day the chiefs assembled for their ceremonial smoke, and the next day at early dawn one of them went to the narrow portion of the mesa between Walpi and Sichumavi and laid on the trail one of the puhtabi, or long strings, elsewhere described, sprinkling a little meal and casting a pinch toward the place of sunrise. At the same time he said a prayer: "Our Sun, send us rain." Just as the sun appeared he "cried" the announcement, of which Dr. Fewkes gives the free translation:—
"All people awake, open your eyes, arise!
Become Talahoya (Child of Light), vigorous, active, sprightly.
Hasten, Clouds, from the four world quarters.
Come, Snow, in plenty, that water may be abundant when summer
comes.
Come, Ice, and cover the fields, that after planting they may yield
abundantly.
Let all hearts be glad.
The Wűwūtchimtû will assemble in four days.
They will encircle the villages, dancing and singing their lays.
Let the women be ready to pour water upon them,
That moisture may come in abundance and all shall rejoice."
Four days later, with elaborate preparation and carefully observed ritual the new fire was made. About a hundred participants were present. When all were ready the fire-board was held in position by two kneeling men, while two others manipulated the fire drill. The singing chief then gave the signal and two societies started a song, each with different words and yet in unison, accompanied by clanging of bells and rattling of tortoise shells and deer hoofs. The holes of the fire-board and stones were sprinkled with corn pollen. The spindle or fire drill was held vertically between the palms, and in rotating it the top was pressed downward. Smoke was produced in twenty seconds and a spark of fire in about a minute. The spark smudged cedar-bark, which was put in place to catch it, and then the driller blew it into a flame. This flame was then carried to a pile of greasewood placed in the fireplace, and as the wood blazed to the ceiling the song ceased. Prayer was then offered by one of the chief priests of one of the societies and ceremonial offerings sprinkled into the fire. This priest was followed by one from each of the other societies and by individual worshippers.
They then, in procession, paid a ceremonial visit to the shrine of the Goddess of Germs, which is among the rocks at the southwestern point of the mesa. It is made of flat stones set on edge, opened above and on one side, and consists of a fetish of petrified wood.
Then followed a complex series of ceremonies that merely to outline would require several pages. Some of them are public dances, others dramatic representations in a crude fashion of what the legends of the Hopis say are certain events which transpired in the underworld, and a most important one is the disposal of the sacred embers of the new fire.
There are few ceremonies in the world that equal in solemnity and interest, and that are more charming, than those performed by the parents and other relatives when a Hopi baby comes into the world. There are religion, affection, sentiment, and poetry embraced in what we—the superior people—would undoubtedly term the superstitious rites of these simple-hearted people. One reason for the fervor of this rite is the genuine welcome every Hopi mother and father accord to their baby when it is born. It is "good form" among them to be proud of the birth of their children. No married woman is happy unless she has a "quiver full" of children, and one of her constant prayers before her marriage is that she may be thus blessed.
So when the child comes there is great rejoicing. It is immediately rubbed all over with ashes to keep the hair from growing on the body; or that, at least, is the reason the Hopi mother gives for allowing her little one to be scrubbed all over with the ashes.
Then it is wrapped up in a cotton blanket of the mother's own weaving, for Hopi women, and men also, are great experts in growing, spinning, and weaving cotton. Now it is ready for the cradle. This is either a piece of board or a flat piece of woven wicker-work about two and a half feet long and a foot wide. There is also fixed at the upper end two or three twigs arranged in a kind of bow, so that a piece of cloth thrown over them forms an awning to protect the face of the child from the sun. When this bow is not in use it can be slipped over to the back of the cradle. Strapped in this queer cradle, the baby is either stretched out upon the ground to go to sleep, covered over with a blanket, or reared up against the wall. But if your eyes were keen you would see by its side a beautiful white ear of corn. And if you saw it and knew the Hopi mother's ways and her thoughts, you would find that the reason for putting the corn there was this: she believes that the corn represents one of her most powerful gods on the earth, and that if this god is made to feel kindly towards the new-born child he will send it good health and strength and skill in hunting and everything else that she desires for her loved baby. So, you see, it is mother love, combined with a singular superstition, that makes the Hopi mother place the ear of corn by the side of her sleeping child.
When the baby is twenty days old it is—shall I say?—baptized. You can hardly call it this, but, anyhow, it answers the same thing as baptism does with us. About sunset the child's godmother arrives. She is generally the grandmother or aunt on the father's side. Just as the first streaks of light begin to come in the early morning the ceremony begins. After washing the mother's head and legs and feet, the baby's turn comes. The house is full of relatives and friends to watch and bring good fortune to the little one. A bowl of suds is made by beating the soapweed until the water is covered with beautiful lather. Then the godmother takes an ear of corn, dips it into the suds, and touches the baby's head with it. This she does four times. Then she washes the baby's head very carefully and thoroughly in the suds. But the washing would be of no good unless all the baby's female relatives on the father's side were to dip their ears of corn into the suds and touch its head with them four times, just as the godmother did. Now the baby is washed all over, and then—strange to say—the godmother fills her mouth full of warm water, and, balancing the baby on one hand, she squirts the water from her mouth all over the little one. To dry it, she holds it before the fire, and when it is quite dry she rubs it with white corn-meal, wraps it in a blanket, and passes it over to the mother, who is seated near to the fire. Just before her are two baskets full of corn-meal, one coarsely and one finely ground. Taking an old blanket, the godmother spreads it over the mother's lap, the baby is placed on it, then she takes a little of the fine meal and rubs it on the face, arms, and neck of the mother, and also upon the face of the child. Then with the ear of corn in her hand, and slowly and regularly moving it up and down, she prays first over the mother, then over the baby. I have heard several of these prayers. Here is one of them: "Ho-ko-na (butterfly), I ask for you that you live to be old, that you may never be sick, that you may have good corn and all good things. And now I name you Ho-ko-na" (or whatever the name is to be).