Then Mad Wolf brought forth a small pouch of red clay, the sacred paint. There was an impressive silence while he prepared it in his hands, and said: “Now is the time for my white son to come.” He motioned to me. I went before him and knelt, while he painted my forehead, chin, and both cheeks, describing a circle and representing the sun’s daily course through the heavens. He took a beaver-skin from his sacred bundle, and passed it down both sides of my head, shoulders, and arms; then ended with an upward sweep, by which he imparted his blessing, and prayed: “Before you, my Father, Great Sun Chief, I now adopt this white man as my son. Let the red paint be like the sunlight, To protect and bring him health and strength. May all my people be kind and help him, That he may be happy, as long as he remains among his Indian brothers and sisters. My Father, the Sun, keep him from harm, When he goes again to his home towards the rising sun. Give him light by day, That his path may be free from danger. If he should go into the wrong trail, Lead him safely back, That his path may be firm and downhill to old age.” After the prayer, Mad Wolf and Blessed Weasel opened a bundle of buffalo and elk hides, which were spread before the men. Rattles of rawhide, containing small pebbles, were also distributed among them for beating on the hides. Mad Wolf handed two of the rattles to me and said: “You are now my son and should take part in the ceremony.” Then kneeling with the Indians, I joined in the chants and in beating time with my rattles on a buffalo hide. One song we sang represented a porcupine on a hill, watching a beaver at work. The porcupine said: “I will take my bow and arrows and kill you.” But the beaver escaped by swimming under the water. We also sang the song of the war eagle, soaring high over the mountains and at times swooping down for its prey. At sunset Mad Wolf brought the ceremony to a close with the prayer: “Father, the Sun! Continue to give us light, That the leaves and grass may grow. May our cattle increase, and our children live to be old. Mother, the Moon! Give us sleep, That we may rise again like our Father, the Sun. May our lives be strong. May our hearts feel good towards our white brothers, We are all your children.” After the feast of soup made of service berries and tongue, Mad Wolf made a sign that the ceremony was over; and all rose and filed out of the lodge. CHAPTER VII MAD WOLF TELLS THE LEGEND OF THE BEAVER BUNDLE