We-hro loved the tawny fringes and the hammered silver quite as much as
a white lady loves diamonds and pearls; he loved to see his father's
face painted in fierce reds, yellows and blacks, but most of all he
loved the unvarying chuck-a, chuck-a, chuck-a of the great mud-turtle
rattles that the "musicians" skilfully beat upon the benches before
them. Oh, he was a thorough little pagan, was We-hro! His loves and his
hates were as decided as his comical but stately step in the dance of
his ancestors' religion. Those were great days for the small Onondaga
boy. His father taught him to shape axe-handles, to curve lacrosse
sticks, to weave their deer-sinew netting, to tan skins, to plant corn,
to model arrows and--most difficult of all--to "feather" them, to
"season" bows, to chop trees, to burn, hollow, fashion and "man" a
dugout canoe, to use the paddle, to gauge the wind and current of that
treacherous Grand River, to learn wild cries to decoy bird and beast for
food. Oh, little pagan We-hro had his life filled to overflowing with
much that the civilized white boy would gave all his dimes and dollars
to know.
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