With his battle-spear and his bow and quiver,
And eagle-plumes in his ebon hair,
The chief Wakawa himself is there;
And round the feast, in the Sacred Ring,[48]
Sit his weaponed warriors witnessing.
Not a morsel of food have the Virgins tasted
For three long days ere the holy feast;
They sat in their _teepee_ alone and fasted,
Their faces turned to the Sacred East.[21]
In the polished bowls lies the golden maize,
And the flesh of fawn on the polished trays.
For the Virgins the bloom of the prairies wide--
The blushing pink and the meek blue-bell,
The purple plumes of the prairie's pride,[49]
The wild, uncultured asphodel,
And the beautiful, blue-eyed violet
That the Virgins call "Let-me-not forget,"
In gay festoons and garlands twine
With the cedar sprigs[50] and the wildwood vine.
So gaily the Virgins are decked and dressed,
And none but a virgin may enter there;
And clad is each in a scarlet vest,
And a fawn-skin frock to the brown calves bare.
Wild rose-buds peep from their flowing hair,
And a rose half blown on the budding breast;
And bright with the quills of the porcupine
The moccasined feet of the maidens shine.
Hand in hand round the feast they dance,
And sing to the notes of a rude bassoon,
And never a pause or a dissonance
In the merry dance or the merry tune.
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