Their dances occur every day, they go and pick out the largest tents
and go and take them from the Wood Crees, and leave them all day
without any covering, with the white people who were prisoners, with
them. They thought the white people took it as an honor to them, and
every time in moving, Big Bear's band would tell us just where to put
our tents, and if one camped outside this circle, they would go and
cut their tent in pieces. In some of their dances, Little Poplar was
arrayed in some of Miss McLean's ribbons, ties and shawls, another
with my hat on, and another with Mrs. Delaney's, and the squaws with
our dresses, and they had a large dish of meat in the centre and
danced awhile, and sat down and ate and danced again, keeping this up
all day long. And if anyone lagged in the dance, it was a bad day for
him. Little Poplar had a whip, and he would ply it thick on the back
of the sluggish dancer.
One day just as we were eating dinner, an Indian came and invited us
out to a dog feast; the men went, but we preferred bannock and bacon,
to dog. They sent each of us _three yards_ of print to make us a
dress; a squaw takes no more than that. And then a friendly Indian
made me a present of a pair of green glasses.
A most dreadful affair occurred one day, they killed one of their
squaws, an old grey beaded woman that was insane.
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