The fires in the Long House had died down somewhat, and little
was to be seen but the eyes and general outline of the people.
Then a slender man of middle years, the best singer in all the
Iroquois nation, arose and sang:
To the great chiefs bring we greeting,
All hail! All hail! All hail!
To the dead chiefs, kindred greeting,
All hail! All hail! All hail!
To the strong men 'round him greeting,
All hail! All hail! All hail!
To the mourning women greeting,
All hail! All hail! All hail!
There our grandsires' words repeating,
All hail! All hail! All hail!
Graciously, Oh, grandsires, hear,
All hail! All hail! All hail!
The singing voice was sweet, penetrating, and thrilling, and the
song was sad. At the pauses deep murmurs of sorrow ran through
the crowd in the Long House. Grief for the dead held them all.
When he finished, Satekariwate, the Mohawk, holding in his hands
three belts of wampum, uttered a long historical chant telling of
their glorious deeds, to which they listened patiently. The
chant over, he handed the belts to an attendant, who took them to
Thayendanegea, who held them for a few moments and looked at them
gravely.
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