In regard to the period of mourning, I would say that there does not now appear to be, and, so far as I can learn, never was, any fixed period of mourning, but it would seem that, like some of the whites, they mourn when the subject is brought to their minds by some remark or other occurrence. It is not unusual at the present time to hear a man or woman cry and exclaim, “O, my poor husband!” “O, my poor wife!” or “O, my poor child!” as the case may be, and, upon inquiring, learn that the event happened several years before. I have elsewhere mentioned that in some cases much of the personal property of the deceased was and is reserved from burial with the body, and forms the basis of a gambling party. I shall conclude my remarks upon the burial customs, &c., of these Indians by an account of this, which they designate as the “ghost’s gamble.” The account of the game will be found in another part of this paper. As illustrative of the preparation of the dead Indian warrior for the tomb, a translation of Schiller’s beautiful burial song is here given. It is believed to be by Bulwer, and for it the writer is indebted to the kindness of Mr. Benjamin Drew, of Washington, D.C.: BURIAL OF THE CHIEFTAIN. See on his mat, as if of yore, How lifelike sits he here; With the same aspect that he wore When life to him was dear. But where the right arm’s strength, and where The breath he used to breathe To the Great Spirit aloft in air, The peace-pipe’s lusty wreath? And where the hawk-like eye, alas! That wont the deer pursue Along the waves of rippling grass, Or fields that shone with dew? Are these the limber, bounding feet That swept the winter snows? What startled deer was half so fleet, Their speed outstripped the roe’s. These hands that once the sturdy bow Could supple from its pride, How stark and helpless hang they now Adown the stiffened side! Yet weal to him! at peace he strays Where never fall the snows, Where o’er the meadow springs the maize That mortal never sows; Where birds are blithe in every brake, Where forests teem with deer, Where glide the fish through every lake, One chase from year to year! With spirits now he feasts above; All left us, to revere The deeds we cherish with our love, The rest we bury here. Here bring the last gifts, loud and shrill Wail death-dirge of the brave What pleased him most in life may still Give pleasure in the grave. We lay the axe beneath his head He swung when strength was strong, The bear on which his hunger fed-- The way from earth is long! And here, new-sharpened, place the knife Which severed from the clay, From which the axe had spoiled the life, The conquered scalp away. The paints that deck the dead bestow, Aye, place them in his hand, That red the kingly shade may glow Amid the spirit land.