repeated twice. Two score voices instantly replied, "Heh!" and a
rush was made for him. At least a hundred gathered around him,
but they stood in a respectful circle, no one nearer than ten
feet. He waved his hand, and all sat down on the ground. Then,
he, too, sat down, all gazing at him intently and with
expectancy.

He was a professional story-teller, an institution great and
honored among the tribes of the Iroquois farther back even than
Hiawatha. He began at once the story of the warrior who learned
to talk with the deer and the bear, carrying it on through many
chapters. Now and then a delighted listener would cry " Hah!"
but if anyone became bored and fell asleep it was considered an
omen of misfortune to the sleeper, and he was chased
ignominiously to his tepee. The Iroquois romancer was better
protected than the white one is. He could finish some of his
stories in one evening, but others were serials. When he arrived
at the end of the night's installment he would cry, "Si-ga!"
which was equivalent to our "To be continued in our next." Then
all would rise, and if tired would seek sleep, but if not they
would catch the closing part of some other story-teller's
romance.

At three fires Senecas were playing a peculiar little wooden
flute of their own invention, that emitted wailing sounds not
without a certain sweetness. In a corner a half dozen warriors
hurt in battle were bathing their wounds with a soothing lotion
made from the sap of the bass wood.

Henry lingered a while in the darkest corners, witnessing the