The words of many love-songs refer to the dawn, the time of the day when they are usually sung; but this reference is not a literal one. It figures the dawn of love in the breast of the singer. The Indian stands so close to Nature that he sees his own moods reflected or interpreted in hers.
The Indian words of this song, freely translated, are:—
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As the day comes forth from night, So I come forth to seek thee. Lift thine eyes and behold him Who comes with the day to thee. |
Miss Edna Dean Proctor has rendered into charming verse the scene and the feeling of the hour, giving us an Indian love-song in its entirety. By her courtesy I am able to reproduce here her poem written some years ago, on hearing the melody which I had then recently transcribed during one of my sojourns among the Omaha Indians:—
Omaha.
Harmonized by Prof. J.C. Fillmore.
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Fades the star of morning, West winds gently blow, gently blow, gently blow. Soft the pine trees murmur, Soft the waters flow, Soft the waters flow, Soft the waters flow. Lift thine eyes, my maiden, To the hill-top nigh. Night and gloom will vanish When the pale stars die, When the pale stars die, When the pale stars die. Lift thine eyes, my maiden, Hear thy lover's cry. |
This little parable occurs in the ritual of a religious ceremony of the Pawnee tribe. The song has no words, except a term for wren, the vocables being intended only to imitate the notes of the bird, nevertheless, one can trace, through the variation and repetition of the musical motive, the movement of the gentle thoughts of the teacher as given in the story which belongs to the song.
"A priest went forth in the early dawn. The sky was clear. The grass and wild flowers waved in the breeze that rose as the sun threw its first beams over the earth. Birds of all kinds vied with each other, as they sang their joy on that beautiful morning. The priest stood listening. Suddenly, off at one side, he heard a trill that rose higher and clearer than all the rest. He moved toward the place whence the song came, that he might see what manner of bird it was that could send farther than all the others its happy, laughing notes. As he came near, he beheld a tiny brown bird with open bill, the feathers on its throat rippling with the fervour of its song. It was the wren, the smallest, the least powerful of birds, that seemed to be most glad and to pour out in ringing melody to the rising sun its delight in life.
"As the priest looked, he thought: 'Here is a teaching for my people. Every one can be happy, even the most insignificant can have his song of thanks.'
"So he made the story of the wren and sang it; and it has been handed down from that day,—a day so long ago no man can remember the time."
SONG OF THE WREN.
Pawnee.
Transcribed from Graphophone and harmonized by Edwin S. Tracy.
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Ke-chi ra-ku-wa-ku whe ke re re we chi, Ke-chi ra-ku-wa-ku whe ke re re we chi, Ke-chi ra-ku-wa-ku whe ke re re we chi, Ke-chi ra-ku-wa-ku whe ke re re we chi, Ke-chi ra-ku-wa-ku whe ke re re we chi, Ke-chi ra-ku-wa-ku whe ke re re we chi. |
There was but one funeral song in the Omaha tribe, and this was only sung to honour some man or woman who had been greatly respected by the people.
What one would see, when this song was sung, was in violent contrast to the character of the music. The blithe major strains suggest only happiness. They hardly touch ground, so to speak, but keep their flight up where the birds are flitting about in the sunshine; and, if there are clouds in the blue sky, they are soft and fleecy, and cast no shadows. Yet the men who sang this song were ranged in line before the tent where the dead lay ready for burial. They had drawn the stem of a willow branch through a loop of flesh cut on their left arm, and their blood dripped upon the green leaves and fell in drops to the ground.
The meaning of this strange spectacle and its musical accompaniment, so apparently out of keeping, must be sought for in the beliefs of the people. It was a drama touching two worlds.
The shedding of blood was to express how vital was the loss. This act, visible to the mourners, was an exhibition of sympathy; but music had power to reach the unseen world, so the song was for the spirit of the dead, who could not see the lacerated singers, but could hear them, as they sang to cheer him as he went forth, forced by death to leave all who were dear to him.[7]
The song was always sung in unison. The rhythm was accented by each singer beating together two small willow sticks.
There are no words to the song, only vocables; and these belong to the breathing or sighing class, indicative of emotion.
SONG TO THE SPIRIT.
Omaha.
Harmonized by Prof. J.C. Fillmore.
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E a dha ah E he a ha ah, he ah E dha ah he a ha ah E dha ah E ah E ah ha e ha o E dha he he dhoe ha o o E dha ha he a ha ah E dha ah e ah E ah ha e ha o E dha he dho. |
It was a warm day of early spring on the Upper Missouri, when the subtle joy of awakening life stirs the blood and rouses the fancy. The brown outline of the bare trees was already broken by little leaves that were shaking themselves in the bright sunlight. Flowers were peering through the vivid green of the freshly sprung grass, the birds had come, and the silence of the year had passed. It was a day to enjoy outdoor life, to indulge in hope and happy thoughts. The sky was so blue between the rolling white clouds that one forgot they could ever become portentous of storm. The tents of the Indians, dotted along the banks of the stream, stood like tall white flowers among the trees. Women and children were chatting and calling to each other. Men moved sedately about, busy with preparations for the coming summer days. Young men and maidens were thinking of each other; for the morning song of the lover had been heard, and the signal flash of the mirror[8] had revealed his watching-place to the dark-eyed girl demurely drawing water for the household in the early dawn.
Unheeding the passage of the hours, I wandered up the narrow valley, noting the fading lines of aboriginal life spread out before me. All at once I became aware that the brightness of the day was overshadowed: a greyish hue, that rapidly deepened, pervaded the scene. Suddenly the wind came over the hills, the birds darted about, and the sound of thunder was heard. Everything was seeking a shelter; and, as I turned in haste, hoping to reach the nearest tent, I saw an old woman emerge from a lodge and in the face of the storm begin to climb the hill, down which the wind swept, laying low the grass and whipping the heads of the flowers. Seemingly unmindful of the storm, on the woman went, her scant garments flapping, and her hair, seamed with grey, tossing about her wrinkled face. The sight was so strange that I paused to watch her, as she climbed on and on, steadfastly breasting the storm. The lightnings flashed around her, and the thunder echoed among the hills as she reached the top. There she stopped and stood, a silhouette against the surging clouds, her hands uplifted, her head thrown back; and between the thunder peals I heard her voice ring out loud and clear in a song,—a song, I doubted not, that carried a message to the mighty storm, in which to her the gods were present. Many years have passed since I witnessed this scene and learned the story of the woman's song. She is now at rest, and let us hope her lifelong sorrow may have turned to joy.
In the early part of the century a Dakota woman fasted and prayed, and Thunder came to her in her vision. To the god she promised to give her firstborn child. When she became a mother, she forgot in her joy that the life of her little one did not belong to her; nor did she recall her fateful vow until one bright spring day, when the clouds gathered and she heard the roll of the thunder,—a sound which summoned all persons consecrated to this god to bring their offerings and to pay their vows. Then she remembered what she had promised; but her heart forbade her to lay the infant, which was smiling in her arms, upon the cloud-swept hill-top. She pressed the baby to her breast, and waited in silence the passing of the god in the storm.
The following spring, when the first thunder pealed, she did not forget her vow; but she could not gather strength to fulfil it.
Another year passed, and again the thunder sounded. Taking the toddling child by the hand, the mother climbed the hill; and, when the top was reached, she placed it on the ground and fled. But the boy scrambled up and ran after her, and his frightened cry stayed her feet. He caught her garments and clung to them; and, although the thunder called, she could not obey. Her vow had been made before she knew the strength of a mother's love.
Gathering the boy in her arms, she hid herself and him from the presence of the god. The storm passed, and the mother and child returned to the lodge; but fear had taken possession of her, and she watched her son with eyes in which terror and love struggled for the mastery.
One day, as the little one played beside a rippling brook, laughing and singing in his glee, suddenly the clouds gathered, the flashing lightning and the crashing thunder sent beast and bird to cover, and drove the mother out to find her child. She heard his voice above the fury of the storm, calling to her. As she neared the brook, a vivid flash blinded her eyes. For a moment she was stunned; but, recovering, she pushed on, only to be appalled by the sight that met her gaze. Her boy lay dead. The thunder god had claimed his own.
No other children came to lighten the sorrow of the lonely woman; and every spring, when the first thunder sounded, and whenever the storm swept the land, this stricken woman climbed the hills, and there, standing alone, facing the black rolling clouds, she sang her song of sorrow and of fealty.
The words of the song are addressed to the god; but the music, in its swaying rhythm, suggests the mother's memory of the days when she soothed her little child.
The following is a free translation of the Indian words:—
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E dho he![9] Behold! On their mighty pinions flying, They come, the gods come once more Sweeping o'er the land, Sounding their call to me, to me their own. Wa-gi-un![10] Ye on mighty pinions flying, Look on me here, me your own, Thinking on my vow As ye return once more, Wa-gi-un! |
THE MOTHER’S VOW.
Dakota.
Harmonized by Prof. J.C. Fillmore.
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E dho he! Gi-un, gi-un a-gi-ba ha-don-be Co-dha, gi-don-be a-me, ha-don-be a-me, Wa-gi-un gi a-me dho he dho-e. Wa-gi-un gi-un a-gi-ba ha-don-be Co-dha gi-don-be ha-we ha-don-be a-me. Wa-gi-un gi a-me dho he dho. |
The native flageolet has proved a trusty friend to many a youth to whom nature had denied the power of expressing in vocal melody his fealty to the maiden of his choice. With its woody tones he rivalled the birds as he sounded his love-call from the hills and made glad the heart of the girl, who, catching the signal, awaited his coming at the spring.
There are many bits of music composed for this little instrument, which, in spite of its inaccuracies of pitch, arising from imperfect construction, are not without hints of beauty.
LOVE CALL.
Omaha.
For the Flageolet.
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It is well known that the serious avocations of the fathers often serve as games for the children. So it comes about that in the games of chance we have a survival of the ancient custom of divination. As, according to Indian belief, song was the medium through which man communicated with the mysterious powers, we find all his games of chance accompanied by melodies.
One autumn evening many years ago I was walking along a stretch of the Pacific shore. The westerning moon flooded the water with light, and lit up the edge of the dense forest that formed the background of an Indian village. From one of its great square wooden dwellings came the sound of singing, and the ruddy firelight shone through the cracks of the plank door as I approached.
Entering, I saw that the central fire had just been lighted. The four families, which had each their particular portion of the communal house, had suffered their separate fires to burn to ashes, and had pushed back their various belongings to give more room for the gathering crowd.
I lingered at the door, looking on the motley scene: the women and children in the background; the old men in groups, talking over their younger days; the line of men singers, each with his piece of board with which to strike the floor in lieu of a drum; the young men who were to play, ranged in two opposite rows; and others standing about, watching their friends and eager for the game to begin.
When all was ready, the leader of one side held up for a moment in one hand a small piece of bone, then began tossing it secretly from one hand to the other, moving the closed fists rapidly past each other to the rhythm of the song sung by the singers, the opposite side keeping sharp eyes on the moving fists, to be ready, when the signal should be given, to detect, if possible, the hand to which the bone had finally been passed.
Heavy stakes were put up, and there was every sign that song after song would follow each other as the night wore on.
The song which follows is sung when playing a game of chance:—
GAME SONG.
Vancouver's Island.
Transcribed and Harmonized by Prof. J.C. Fillmore.
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In the last century there lived a man who, in his young days, was a desperate coquet. He played havoc with the plans of many a young man, robbing him of the fancy of his sweetheart, and then leaving the maiden all forlorn. His behaviour aroused the anger and jealousy of both sexes, but he seemed as impervious to the contempt of his fellows as he was callous to the woe of his victims. The whole village buzzed with the gossip of his adventures, and every one wondered how he managed to escape punishment.
After the manner of the people, a song was made about him and his career, that has outlasted his vain victories.
It is difficult to convey in concise English the sarcastic humour of the original. The words picture this young man as sitting on a hill, near the village where he lived and achieved so many conquests. The warm summer breeze wafted up to him the hum of the people as they talked, blaming him for his actions. "But why blame me?" says the irresistible youth, stretching himself at full length in the sunshine. "It was the gods that made me as I am: blame them, if you will!" And he gave a sigh of satisfaction, "Hi!"
The music carries the story well. The swing of the last six bars suggests his shrug of irresponsibility.
SONG OF THE INDIAN COQUET.
Omaha.
Harmonized by Prof. J.C. Fillmore.
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Ta won gdhon dhe-nun-ye de Un-dhon-ge-a dhon-ke dhe wa-kon-da he-gi-mon-te in-dhin-ga-ye ga-ma hi-a me Hi! |
Early in the century there lived an Omaha Indian, a tall and comely man, gifted with a fine voice and a good memory, and who was greatly admired by the men and women of the tribe. Although genial with every one, he was reserved; and none knew all that had transpired in his life or that occupied his thoughts. He was a prosperous man. His lodge was well supplied, for his skill as a hunter was equal to his valour as a warrior.
Years passed; and here and there a silver thread glistened in his black hair, the furrows deepened in his handsome face, and more and more his thoughts seemed to dwell on the past. One day he was heard singing a love-song of his own composition, and gossip became busy as to what this song might mean. His actions threw no light on the mystery. He was the same kind husband and father, the same diligent provider, and he sought no new companionship. Nevertheless, at every dawn he went upon the hill near his lodge; and, while the morning star hung like a jewel in the east, he sang the melody carrying the words,—
"With the dawn I seek thee!"
THE OLD MAN’S LOVE SONG.
Omaha.
Harmonized by Prof. J.C. Fillmore.
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Ha he ha ha he ha he ha we dhe ha dha e ha dhoe, Um-ba e-don ha-i-don, hu-wi-ne ha, ho e ho wa dho he dhe, I ha, ha he ho, ho he ho, he ha we dhe dhoe. Un-ba i-don ha-i-don, hu-wi ne ha, ho e ho ne dho he. |
The young men caught the tune, and sang it as they wooed the maidens; and the old man smiled as he heard them. "Yes, they are right," he said. "It is a love-song."
He grew to be a very old man, an old man with a love-song, until it was only when the warm days came that he could slowly climb the hill at dawn, and, alone with the breezes and birds, greet the new day with his song, that both kept and revealed his secret,—the secret of a love, like the radiant bow, spanning the whole horizon of his life. At last a time came when his voice was no longer heard.
The tender cadences of his song, fraught with human hope and human feeling, still linger, and to-day awaken echoes across the barriers of time and race.
Many Indian tribes believed it possible for one person to affect another through the power of the will. This belief gave rise to peculiar customs and to a class of songs called, in the Omaha tongue, We´-ton, composed and sung by women for the sole purpose of exerting this power for the benefit of absent warriors.
Unless the village was attacked, women did not take active part in war. When the men went forth on a long journey to meet the enemy, the women remained at home, attending to domestic duties. Their thoughts, however, were with the absent ones; and, under the incentive of the belief in will power, they would gather in groups at the lodge of the Leader of the war party, and in the hearing of his family would sing a We´-ton song, which should carry strength to the far-away warriors and help them to win the battle.
The words of these songs do not reveal the purpose for which they were sung, it being one of the peculiarities of the Indian never to expatiate upon that which to him is apparent. The gathering of the women at the lodge of the Leader of the war party, the united action in singing a song never used but for one purpose, made any explanatory words seem unnecessary. The distinctive mission of the song was to reach the absent man, who, far from home, was suffering hardship and facing danger. Upon him the singers fixed their thoughts, and to him sent strength by their power of will. The words always referred to the difficulties that confronted the warrior, and promised him success and victory. They were not addressed to any visible audience.
The We´-ton song here given was composed by a Dakota woman.
Many years ago a large party of warriors were out on a dangerous expedition for the purpose of recapturing some property stolen by an implacable enemy. There seemed little hope for their safe return, and great apprehension was felt in many a tent. One evening, as the moon rose, round and clear, over the wide rolling prairie, a group of women moved in single file to the lodge of the Leader of the war party, upon whom rested the responsibility of the expedition.
The tent stood dark against the evening sky, revealing the anxiety within, which had let the blazing fire die to smouldering embers. At the door the women paused, and across the stillness of the night they sent forth this song, fraught with their united determination to compel victory for the absent men.
"All the tribes shall hear of you," they sang. "Put forth your strength. Truly this shall come to pass."
Out of the silent tent emerged the Leader's wife, bearing in her arms gifts in acknowledgment of sympathy given and of succour sent.
And, as the women sang, "truly it came to pass." In due time the men returned triumphant, after many hair-breadth escapes, with not one of their number missing.
WE-TON SONG.
Dakota.
Harmonized by Prof. J.C. Fillmore.
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E ya-a he! ah he dhe he dhe ah he dhe he dhe e-ya he! ah ye dha he he ah he dha he dhoe, ou-ki-a-ma dhi nun-un-ta-ye wa-skon-e-gun ya he E ya he! ah he dhe he he ah he dhe he dho. |
There is no dalliance in this Pawnee love-song. It has no words, but the music tells the story,—the insistent call of the lover to the maiden to fly with him, the wide sweep of the prairie, the race for cover, and the dauntless daring that won the girl from rival pursuers.
LOVE SONG.
Pawnee.
Transcribed by E.S. Tracy.
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The Mi´-ka-thi songs are sung by warriors as they leave the village on their way to battle. They all originate in some personal experience, and both story and song are handed down with care and precision.
A Ponka war party once camped near the enemy. The usual sentinels had been stationed, with special injunctions to be vigilant, that the camp might not be discovered and surprised. Among those assigned to duty as sentinel that night was a young man ambitious to win preferment and honour in the tribe. His career was yet all to make, and he was on the alert for opportunity to distinguish himself.
There was no moon, and only the keenest eye could discern any distant object in the darkness. The silence was unbroken save by the occasional cry of the wolf, the creaking of a cricket, or the rustle of a passing breeze.
The young man, intently on the watch, scanned the country from right to left, searching through the dimness for any moving thing; but all was motionless beneath, while overhead the stars moved slowly through the heavens, as the night wore on.
At a little distance from the watcher was a clump of trees. Upon this he kept a steady eye, only turning now and then to sweep the horizon. Once, as his eye returned to the trees, he beheld a shadow unnoticed before. It moved; and, without waiting to see more, he sped noiselessly as an arrow to wake the Leader and report that he had seen the enemy creeping toward the sleeping warriors.
The Leader, an old and experienced man, made no reply, but rose quickly and silently, and taking his bow in his hand, motioned the sentinel to lead the way.
With rapid, muffled steps, they reached the place where the young man had stood when he had seen the moving shadow. The Leader looked intently in the indicated direction, bent his ear to the ground and listened, then rose and looked again.
A faint gleam of light in the east gave sign of the approach of day, as the Leader stepped cautiously toward the group of trees, followed by the young warrior, whose heart beat high with hope that the time had at last come for him to show his valour and win a war honour. A greyish hue was spreading over the land as they neared the place. The young man's eyes sought among the trees the hidden enemy, but the Leader paused and addressed the youth:—
"Was it here that you saw the enemy?"
"Yes."
"Look on the ground and tell me what you see?"
Surprised at the words, yet obedient, he turned his scrutiny from the trees to the grass upon which they stood, and detected there the traces of the feet of an animal. As he gazed silently at the tracks, absorbed in his thoughts, the dawn came slowly on. The Leader was the first to speak:—
"I had seen a wolf pass here when I was going the rounds of the camp, and when you reported to me I had but just returned to my bed. I arose and came with you, to be quite sure that we had both looked in the same direction and had seen the same thing. A warrior must learn to distinguish a man from a wolf, even in the darkness of midnight."
The youth heard the words in silence. At last he said, "A warrior has much to learn; and it is well if, while he learns, he brings no trouble to his friends." Then, standing beside the veteran Leader, in the light of the coming day, he suddenly broke into song, voicing there on the instant the feeling born of his night's experience.
This story and song he gave to others, that it might be as a voice of warning to young and eager warriors, and help them to guard against a misadventure like his own.
Although the young man in after years became noted in the tribe for his prudence and valour, this story and song of his youth have survived the memory of his later deeds.
The words give the pith of the adventure: "I did not report aright when I went to the Leader and bade him arise. It was a wolf that was moving."
The spirited music breathes the impatient eagerness of youth. The haste and insistence of the young warrior are heard in the phrase where he addresses the "Nu-don hon-ga," or Leader. The song is a great favourite among the young men of several Indian tribes in our country.
MI-KA-THI.
A WARRIOR’S SONG.
Ponka.
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Hi a ha ha ha a he a-we dho he e hu he a he dhe ya a ho e dho he e hu e a-he ya a ha e dho he he dho-e. Nu-don hon-ga ni-a-shi-ga bi-e he mia ka non-zhi-a he e Mi-ka-thi-a-ma ha dhea a-me dho he e Hon-ga dhe-te non zhin-ge dho he e. |
This little song of springtime was noted from the singing of a Tigua girl of the pueblo of Isleta, N.M., by my honoured and lamented friend and co-worker, Professor John Comfort Fillmore. It tells the story of the semi-arid region where it was born.
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Rain, people, rain! The rain is all around us. It is going to come pouring down, And the summer will be fair to see, The mocking-bird has said so. |
MOCKING BIRD SONG.
Tigua.
Transcribed and harmonized
by Prof. John Comfort Fillmore.
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Hla-chi dai-nin, hla-chi dai-nin, i-beh ma kun whi ni weh, da win gu ba hin ah. Ah hlun hla hlue i hi ei-ah whi no ei-ah whi no i-ah ei-ah hi-ah hin ni ni ah. Tur wey u tur p'hoa whe na he de a na lhen h'li he pun hi ni ni ah Li u yu sa na a a a ya he wa a hi ni ni a hi ni ni a ni a a ha i hi. |
There are few more pathetic sights than that of an Indian ghost dance,—pathetic in itself, not to consider the gloomy background of fear inspired by it in the minds of so many of our own race who have so widely misunderstood its meaning. The ceremony is but an appeal to the unseen world to come near and to comfort those who have been overtaken in the land of their fathers by conditions both strange and incomprehensible.
The ghost or spirit dance is a modified survival of several ancient ceremonies, blended into one and touched here and there with ideas borrowed from our own race.
In the hypnotic vision which follows the monotonous dance, the landscape of his former days, untouched by the white man, appears to the "controlled" Indian: the streams wander through unbroken prairie; no roadways, no fields of wheat, intrude upon the broad stretches of native grasses; the vanished herds of buffalo come back to their grazing-grounds; the deer and the antelope, the wolf and the bear, are again in the land; and the eagles look down on the Indian villages, where are to be seen the faces of old friends returned from the spirit realm. These are the scenes which come to the homesick Indian, who is stranded in his native land, his ears filled with foreign sounds, his old activities gone, and his hands unskilled and unable to take up new ones.
The ghost dance is the cry of a forsaken people, forsaken by the gods in which they once trusted,—a people bewildered by the complexity of the new path they must follow, misunderstood by and misunderstanding the race with whom they are forced to live. In this brief ceremony of the ghost dance the Indians seek to close their eyes to an unwelcome reality, and to live in the fanciful vision of an irrecoverable past.
This song was given me by a ghost dancer, a leader in the Arapaho tribe. Before he sang, he explained to me the ceremony, its peaceful character, and, all unconsciously, made apparent its expression of a pathetic longing for a life that can never return. Standing before the graphophone, he offered an earnest prayer, then, with his companions, sang this song.
The simple pathos of the words cannot be reproduced in English. They carry a meaning beneath their literal sense that appeals like the cry of a child.
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Father, have pity upon me! I am weeping from hunger (of the spirit): There is nothing here to satisfy me! |
The music tells the story of the cry. Its cadences are antiphonal, as between the two worlds.
GHOST DANCE SONG.
Arapaho.
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When the white race first visited the Indians in the Mississippi valley, they found among them a ceremony common to a large number of tribes; and it was observed that, whenever the symbolic objects peculiar to this ceremony were displayed, they were treated with profound respect.
These sacred objects were two perforated sticks, like pipe stems, one painted blue to represent the sky, and the other green to typify the earth; and among their bright-coloured decorations were the plumages of particular birds and wing-like pendants of eagle feathers. They symbolised the heavens and the earth and the mysterious power that permeates all nature. In their presence the Indians were taught that they should care for their children, think of the future welfare of the people, put aside personal grievances, repress anger and warlike emotions, and be like kindred, at peace with one another. Different names were given to these peculiar objects by the different tribes; and they were classed by our early travellers with the "calumets," or pipes of peace, although they were not pipes, for they had no bowl and could not be smoked.
It was due to the presence of one of these so-called "calumets" in Marquette's frail canoe that made possible his peaceful descent of the Mississippi River on his voyage of discovery. He writes that the "calumet is the most mysterious thing in the world. The sceptres of our kings are not so much respected; ... for one with this calumet may venture among his enemies, and in the hottest battles they lay down their arms before this sacred pipe."
The "calumet" ceremony has, therefore, an historic interest for us, apart from its revelation of the religious beliefs and social ideals of the Indian. To explain the symbolism, the teachings, and the observances which make up this complex rite would fill a volume; but, that something of the dignity and beauty of the thoughts expressed in it may be known, two of its numerous songs are here given.
To understand the significance of these songs, it should be known that two distinct groups or parties were indispensable to the performance of the ceremony; namely, they who brought the "calumets" and they who received them. As it was imperative that there should be no blood relationship between these two parties, they always belonged to different tribes or to two distinct kinship groups within the tribe. The party bringing the "calumets" was called "the father," while those receiving them were "the children." These terms refer to the tie about to be formed between the two unrelated parties by means of this sacred ceremony. This tie was esteemed more honourable and binding than the natural bond of father and son.
The ceremony generally took place in a circular dwelling known as an "earth lodge." The occasion drew together a large concourse of people,—men, women, and children; and the gay costumes, the glinting of ornaments, the picturesque groups, and the happy, smiling faces of old and young made a scene full of colour and motion. Many times I have witnessed this ceremony and joined in its beautiful chorals, led by the bearers, who swayed the "calumets" to the rhythm of the song, wafting over the heads of the people the blessing of peace.
The following choral was sung immediately after the "calumets" had been ceremonially taken from their resting-place, with movements that simulated the eagle rising from its nest. The bearers then faced the people, seated on the ground against the wall of the lodge, and with slow rhythmic steps moved around the circle, waving the "calumets" over the heads of the multitude. As the "calumets" passed slowly by, the people took up the choral, until at last the great lodge resounded with its majestic cadences. The leaping flames from the central fire lit up the faces of the hundreds of men and women; while the swaying feathers of the "calumets" cast great wing-like shadows on the glistening roof, and seemed to make real the symbolic presence of the mighty eagle himself, circling over the people as he sped on his mission, bearing the benediction of good will among men.
Once, at the close of this song, an old Indian turned to me and said, "The 'calumets' are of God."
The words of this choral refer to the blessing of peace given to "the fathers" in ancient days, and now brought by the symbolic "calumets" to "the children."
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Down through the ages vast, On wings strong and true, From great Wa-kon´-da comes Good will unto you,— Peace, that shall here remain. |
CHORAL.
Omaha.
Harmonized by Prof. J.C. Fillmore.
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Dha ke-de hia u-dha ho-dha ke-de ho-dha dha ke-de ha dhe he hia dha ke-de hia dha ke-de ha dhe he. |
After the bearers, or "the fathers," had ceremonially borne the "calumets" four times around the lodge, singing as they went and waving the blessing of peace and fellowship over the heads of "the children," they paused as they reached a consecrated place at the back of the lodge, facing the entrance to the east. Here the ground had been specially prepared, and a wildcat skin spread upon it for the reception of the "calumets." Over this skin, which had its symbolic meaning, the bearers waved the "calumets," imitating the movements of the eagle, sweeping lower and lower, rising and circling again, and then dropping lightly upon its nest.
The song is one of those sung to accompany the movements of the "calumets" as they are thus lowered to rest. The words refer to the search of "the fathers" for "the children," to bring them peace, as the eagle soars abroad and returns to its nest.
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Far above the earth he soars, Circling the clear sky, Flying over forests dim, Peering in shadows, Seeking far and wide his child, To give him peace. |
THE GIFT OF PEACE.
Otoe.
Harmonized by Prof. J.C. Fillmore.
music
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Zhin-ga dha-we dho dho we he ho-i ne Zhin-ga dha-we dho dho we he ho-i-ne Zhin-ga dha we dho dho we ha je dha we. |
The three following songs have a common motive, and are parts of one ceremonial action; but the motive is treated differently in each song, so as to conform to the movements of the ceremony.[11] An unconscious art is here shown, which is interesting as a bit of musical archæology. During the "calumet" ceremony among the Pawnees, if a child cried and would not be comforted, its parents were permitted to appeal to the "calumets" for help.
The fan-shaped pendant of one of these "calumets" was made of the feathers of the golden eagle. This bird in the ceremony was called Kawas, and symbolised the peaceful and conserving power, the giver and preserver of life, the parent of all things. It was to the priestly bearer of this particular "calumet" that the parents appealed. On receiving the appeal, the priest and his assistants arose, and, standing beside "the holy place,"—the consecrated space where the "calumets" were laid at ceremonial rest,—they sang this song, thus passing on to Kawas the appeal of the parents.
KAWAS, THY BABY IS CRYING.
Pawnee.
Transcribed from Graphophone record
and Harmonized by E.S. Tracy.
music
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Ho o Kawas ta wha-ka ra-tsa we Kawas ta wha-ka ra-tsa we Ah he-wi! wha-ka ra-tsa we, Kawas ta wha-ka-ra tsa we. |
The words are in the nature of a prayer, the music has the swing of a lullaby.
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Kawas, thy baby is crying! Grieving sore, wailing, and weeping. Aye, forsooth! wailing and weeping, Kawas, thy baby is crying! |
Then the bearers took up the "calumets" and moved with slow rhythmic steps toward the crying child, singing as they went and swaying the sacred symbols to the measure of this song. Its meaning was explained to me as follows:—
"Hah-ars (a contraction of the word meaning father) signifies Ti-ra´-wa, the power that animates all things, all animals, all men, the heavens, and the earth. Ti-ra´-wa is represented by the Hako (the 'calumets'), and it is this power which now approaches to console the child."
In the music one hears the coming of Ti-ra´-wa in the footsteps of his creatures, both great and small.
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Thy father is coming, E'en now he is near thee; Cry no more: the mighty one, Thy father, is coming! |
THY FATHER IS COMING.
Pawnee.
Transcribed from Graphophone record and
Harmonized by E.S. Tracy.
music
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Ho Hah-ars si-rah ti we-ra, Hah-ars si-ra ti we-ra Re-ko ji! He ti we-ra, Hah-ars si-ra ti we-ra. |
Upon reaching the child, the golden eagle "calumet" was gently swayed above it, while in the background the other "calumet" was waved to ward off disturbing influences, and the priests sang this song. It is said that on hearing it "the child always looks up and ceases its crying."
The caressing, almost playful rhythm of the music twines about the deep religious feeling expressed in the words, like the arms of an infant about the neck of its thoughtful, reverent parent.
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Lift thine eyes, 'tis the gods who come near, Bringing thee joy, release from all pain. Sending sorrow and sighing Far from the child, Ti-ra´-wa makes fain. Ah, you look! Surely, you know who comes, Claiming you his and bidding you rise, Blithely smiling and happy, Child of Ti-ra´-wa, Lord of the skies! |
LOOK UP!
Pawnee.
Transcribed from Graphophone record, and
Harmonized by E.S. Tracy.
music
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Ho Ha! Is-te wa-ta si wi-ta ha, Ha! Is-te wa-ta si wi-ta ha Hah-ars hi re wa-ha-ki, Ha! Is-te wa-ta si wi-ta ha. |
Music enveloped the Indian's individual and social life like an atmosphere. There was no important personal experience where it did not bear a part, nor any ceremonial where it was not essential to the expression of religious feeling. The songs of a tribe were coextensive with the life of the people.
This universal use of music was because of the belief that it was a medium of communication between man and the unseen. The invisible voice could reach the invisible power that permeates all nature, animating all natural forms. As success depended upon help from this mysterious power, in every avocation, in every undertaking, and in every ceremonial, the Indian appealed to this power through song. When a man went forth to hunt, that he might secure food and clothing for his family, he sang songs to insure the assistance of the unseen power in capturing the game. In like manner, when he confronted danger and death, he sang that strength might be given him to meet his fate unflinchingly. In gathering the healing herbs and in administering them, song brought the required efficacy. When he planted, he sang, in order that the seed might fructify and the harvest follow. In his sports, in his games, when he wooed and when he mourned, song alike gave zest to pleasure and brought solace to his suffering. In fact, the Indian sang in every experience of life from his cradle to his grave.
It would be a mistake to fancy that songs floated indiscriminately about among the Indians, and could be picked up here and there by any chance observer. Every song had originally its owner. It belonged either to a society, secular or religious, to a certain clan or political organization, to a particular rite or ceremony, or to some individual.
Religious songs were known only to the priesthood; and, as music constituted a medium between man and the unseen powers which controlled his life, literal accuracy was important, otherwise the path between the god and the man would not be straight, and the appeal would miscarry.
In every tribe there were societies having a definite membership, with initiatory rites and reciprocal duties. Each society had its peculiar songs; and there were officials chosen from among the members because of their good voices and retentive memories, to lead the singing and to transmit with accuracy the stories and songs of the society, which frequently preserved bits of tribal history. Fines were imposed upon any member who sang incorrectly, while ridicule always and everywhere followed a faulty rendering of a song.
The right to sing a song which belonged to an individual could be purchased, the person buying the song being taught it by its owner.
These beliefs and customs among the Indians have made it possible to preserve their songs without change from one generation to another. Many curious and interesting proofs of accuracy of transmittal have come to my knowledge during the past twenty years, while studying these primitive melodies.
Indian singing was always in unison; and, as the natural soprano, contralto, tenor, and bass moved along in octaves, the different qualities of tone in the voices brought out the overtones and produced harmonic effects. When listening to chorals sung by two or three hundred voices, as I have many times heard them in ceremonials, it has been difficult to realise that all were singing in unison.
Close and continued observation has revealed that the Indian, when he sings, is not concerned with the making of a musical presentation to his audience. He is simply pouring out his feelings, regardless of artistic effects. To him music is subjective: it is the vehicle of communication between him and the object of his desire.
Certain peculiarities in the Indian's mode of singing make it difficult for one of our race to intelligently hear their songs or to truthfully transcribe them.
There is no uniform key for any given song, for the Indians have no mechanical device for determining pitch to create a standard by which to train the ear. This, however, does not affect the song; for, whatever the starting note, the intervals bear the same relation to each other, so that the melody itself suffers no change with the change of pitch.
Again, the continual slurring of the voice from one tone to another produces upon us the impression of out-of-tune singing. Then, the custom of singing out of doors, to the accompaniment of the drum, and against the various noises of the camp, and the ever-restless wind, tending to strain the voice and robbing it of sweetness, increases the difficulty of distinguishing the music concealed within the noise,—a difficulty still further aggravated by the habit of pulsating the voice, creating a rhythm within the rhythm of the song.
Emotion also affects the rendering of Indian music. This is especially noticeable in solos, as love-songs, where the singer quite unconsciously varies from a quarter to a whole tone from the true pitch. On the contrary, emphasis sharps the tone. If, however, these peculiarities are imitated to him, the Indian immediately detects, and declares them to be wrong, thus betraying his unconsciousness of his own inaccuracies in endeavouring to strike a plain diatonic interval.
Our difficulty in hearing the music of the Indian is equalled by the trouble he has with our instruments. His attention is engaged by the mechanism. He hears the thud of the hammer, "the drum inside" the piano, the twanging of the metal strings, and the abrupt, disconnected tones. Until he is able to ignore these noises he cannot recognise the most familiar tune. Even then, if his songs are played as an unsupported aria, they are unsatisfactory to him. His ear misses something it heard in the unison singing of his people, and which the addition of a simple harmonic accompaniment supplies, making the melody, as he says, "sound natural." The discovery of the Indian's preference in the rendition of his songs upon the piano led to many experiments, in which Professor Fillmore took part, and that brought to light many interesting facts. Among these facts may be mentioned the complexity of rhythms, one played against the other; the modulation implied in some of the melodies; the preference for a major chord in closing a minor song; and the use of certain harmonic relations which have been deemed peculiar to the modern romantic school.
As these melodies are the spontaneous utterances of a people without any theory of music or even a musical notation, they throw light upon the structure, development, and freedom of natural expression in music.