I saw a band of visiting Sioux warriors parade on horseback, singing a Celebration Song. Lone Dog was their leader; also Red Boy, Bear Paw, and White Eagle. They wore feathered shields fastened to their backs and carried rifles and feathered wands. Their horses were painted and had bunches of feathers attached to manes and tails. They also had head ornaments and beaded flaps of rawhide, which were fastened to their stirrups. While parading the camp circle, they sang: “Oh, Blackfoot! In the past we heard you boast, You would never live like white men. But we see you now, With few of your fine Indian clothes left.” According to an old custom, these visiting Sioux warriors stopped to sing at the lodges of prominent men who gave them presents and food. After going once around the camp circle, they stopped at the lodge of Áhkiona, who gave a Pipe Ceremony for them. A few years before, while visiting the Sioux in North Dakota, they gave him a Medicine Pipe; and now they were going to take it home. In the evening a party of warriors came to the lodge of the head-chief to sing a Wolf Song, according to an ancient war custom. They stood in a circle holding a large rawhide between them, upon which they beat with sticks. They sang no words, but gave the wolf howl at intervals. Their wives and sweethearts who stood near did not sing, but joined in the wolf howls. In former days, the Blackfoot sang the Wolf Song before starting to war or on a hunt, in the belief that the spirit of the wolf, the craftiest of all wild animals, would lead and inspire them with his cunning. To express the desire of the singer, the song always ended with the wolf call, because a wolf always howls when it hunts. That same night, I was wakened by a dog fight close to our lodge. Quickly other dogs came and joined in a mass fight, with barking, yelps and snarls. Then hundreds of dogs in all parts of the circle camp, roused by the noise of the fight, united in a deep-throated and mournful howl—a weird sound, like the wailing of a great wolf-pack. When their dismal chorus died away, I went outside the lodge. It was a glorious night; the sky was clear and a full moon rising over the prairie. All about me were white tepees with their picturesque clusters of tapering poles. In the west a brilliant planet was sinking behind the dim outlines of the Rocky Mountains. The camp was throbbing with life. On all sides I heard singing and drumming. The Sioux warriors were again making their rounds, singing a Traveling Song. Then Red Fox and his sweetheart passed, singing in unison a Riding Song. The girl sat in front of her lover, wearing his war bonnet. His robe of soft-tanned elkskin flowed gracefully back as they rode. Some of the night-singers were riding, mounted two on a horse, singing and marking time with clusters of sleigh bells, in perfect time with the slow jog-trot of their horses.