Old Morabico, the aged prophetess of the tribe, with eyes raised heavenward, recounted, in a chanting monotone, the joys of the Spirit Land whither the departed chief would go when the fires of the funeral pile had freed the captive spirit. Braves of the tribe hid their faces against the supporting posts of the structure and uttered doleful cries till exhaustion compelled them to give way to other braves who in like manner wailed their grief. Women and children, seated about the form of their late chief, added their voices to the mournful chorus. On the evening of the third day, the body of the old chieftain was borne on the shoulders of six strong young braves to a huge pyre out on the plain some distance from the village. Here were found waiting the men, women, and children of the tribe and the official chanters, or poets-laureate who officiate on such occasions. The body was laid upon the pile of fagots, and it was then securely bound to an upright stake and the torch applied. Two of the chanters took their places at the head and foot of the body, and the third began running about the pyre, chanting in a loud voice the virtues of the departed. The Indians are natural poets. The simpleness of diction, the imagery of thought and directness of statement, render their improvised measures exceedingly attractive. Much of the charm of their poetry is lost in the translation and the writer cannot give, with any degree of accuracy a rendition of the poems thus weirdly chanted about the blazing pile. The following will give an idea of the words of the chanters: "He is dead, he is dead! It is Sutuma our chief, our beloved. He lived an hundred years and did no evil. He was the son of an hundred chiefs and he was wise. His words were like drops of water on thirsty ground. His deeds were good and they will live forever." This poet continued to chant his improvised epic as he ran about the pyre, till he became exhausted, when he exchanged places with one of his companions who took up the strain and went on: [Illustration: THE FUNERAL PYRE From photograph by C. C. Pierce & Co.] "The sun is darkened because our chief is gone. The stars weep dewdrops because he is dead. The wind sings sorrowfully because he lies low. When he was alive the earth was very glad. His household rejoiced because of his good sayings. His braves were fearless because he was strong. He was great, he was good, he was full of wisdom. He is dead and the earth groans with its sorrow." From time to time the chanters changed places, and the poem of praise and sorrow continued till the fire burned low and died out. Then the old prophetess, Morabico, lifted from the embers a handful of ashes, which she cast upon the winds saying: "To the Glad Land waft thy spirit. Be there happy ever as thou art entitled to be because of thy goodness and wisdom."