olde woman danced and sung, while my father bourned tobacco on a stone. They gave me a blew coverlitt, stockings, and shoes. I layed with her son & did what I could to get familiarity with them, and I suffered no wrong, yet I was in a terror, for ye fatal songs came from ye poore Hurrons. Ye olde man inquired whether I was Afferony, a ffrench. I affured him no, faying I was Panugaga, that is of their nation, for which he was pleased. [Illustration: 19 THE OMEN OF THE LITTLE BLUE BIRDS] My father feasted 200 men. My sisters made me clean for that purpose, and greased my haire. They tyed me with 2 necklaces of porcelaine & garters of ye same. My father gave me a hattchett in my hand. My father made a speech, showing many demonstrations of vallor, broak a kettle of cagamite with a hattchett. So they sung, as is their usual custom. Ye banquette being over, all cryed to me “Shagon, Orimha”--that is “be hearty!” Every one withdrew to his quarters. Here follows a long account of his daily life among the Indians, his hunting and observations, which our space forbids. He had become meanwhile more familiar with the language. He goes on: My father came into ye cabbin from ye grand castle & he sat him downe to smoke. He said ye Elders had approved after much debate, & that ye ffrench dogg was not a witch, but ye great warrior Mahongui, gone before, whose spirit had rose up into ye ffrench dogg & had spyed ye ffrench. Att ye council even soe ye dogg had walked into ye centre of ye great cabbin, there saying loudly to ye Elders what he was & that he must be heard. His voice must be obeyed. His was not ye mocking cryes of a witch from under an olde snake-skin, butt a chief come from Paradise to comfort his own people. My father asked me if I was agreed. I said that witches did not battile as openly as ye dogg, butt doe their evil in ye dark. [Illustration: 20 YE SPIRIT DOG STRODE FROM YE DARKNESS] These wild men are sore beset with witches and devils--more than Christians, as they deserve to be, for they are of Satan's own belonging. My father dreamed att night, & sang about itt, making ye fire to bourne in our cabbin. We satt to listen. He had mett ye ffrench dogg in ye forest path bye night--he standing accross his way, & ye forest was light from ye dogg's eyes, who spake to my father saying, “I belong to ye dead folks--my hattchett is rust--my bow is mould--I can no longer battile with our Ennemy, butt I hover over you in warre--I direct your arrows to their breasts--I smoothe ye little dry sticks & wett ye leaves under ye shoes--I draw ye morning mist accross to shield you--I carry ye 'Kohes' back and fore to bring your terror--I fling aside ye foeman's bulletts--go back and be strong in council.”