THE HUNTING DANCE.
But the Hunting Dance! What memories of centuries past are kept alive by this brown-skinned race, as they observe the ancient feast of an aboriginal people.
With an invitation from the old chieftain, Tallahassee, who is patriarch of the tribe, to attend the Hunting Dance or Harvest Feast, the temptation was too great to resist. This festival occurs only in cycles—once every four years—and the character of its observance is known to but few, if any, white people. The Indian camps are so inaccessible that it takes nerve and muscle to reach them; but knowing that the entire band of Indians would be on hand in gala spirits and gorgeous attire, and knowing, too, that it was an opportunity that might come but once in a lifetime, the question of “to go or not to go,” was soon settled, and preparations for the irksome journey were under way.
By train ride of one hundred and sixty miles we reached a little Florida hamlet, where a teamster with a creaking wagon and a pair of lean, cadaverous-looking horses were secured. Then followed a drive of thirty miles through ponds, swamps, prairie flats, slush and water; with sand-flies whirring and buzzing in our ears as they seemed to offer their orchestral escort through the dismal funeral Allapata flats. The journey was nearing its end. The sun, shining with a July fierceness, glinted the wigwams of the Seminoles. Tired and hungry we approached the village. Here the signs of the festival were everywhere apparent. With the inborn courtesy, that is ever present with these untutored Seminoles in the presence of a friend, they met us with royal grace. A wigwam was placed at our disposal, our baggage was unloaded, and in a quiet and unobtrusive manner a fine saddle of venison was presented.
The Indians were bubbling over with excitement, for it was a time of rejoicing—a carnival, when men, women and children all joined in the merriment.
As our visit always means presents for the Indians, expectant faces from the little toddling children, as well as from the older members of the camp, reminded us that it was time to distribute tobacco, pipes, red handkerchiefs, trinkets for the women, candy and nuts for the little ones.
Happiness pervaded the Everglade village. The older Indians, with the exception of the old chief, played like children, keeping the joyous revelry up from hour to hour.
The afternoon of our arrival was devoted to a ball game. An aboriginal ball game! Certainly played by a code of rules more than one hundred and fifty years old, where no curved balls nor Yale coaching had entered, but where swelled and echoed the glad free trump of joy as the game went on with scientific strokes and measured tread, with now and then a “rush” as the ball missed its target and bounded out of its circle. Both men and women participated in the game, the women being as adept as the men. The game is unique, and might be practised with much pleasure by our American boys.
Within a circle whose circumference is about thirty feet is erected a pole, which serves as a goal. The players take sides, or in country school parlance, “choose up.” The object of the game is to strike the pole with the ball, which is knocked with a racket or stick, which is made of hickory, with a netted pocket made of deer thongs.