Every other moment some of them
would be down, digging in the earth with forefinger or a little stick,
and I soon learned they were gathering bulbs about a quarter of an inch
in thickness and as large around as the smaller end of a woman's
thimble. I had seen the plants growing near the pond at the fort, but
now the bulbs were ripe, and were being gathered for winter use. In
accordance with the tribal custom, not a bulb was eaten during harvest
time. They grew so far apart and were so small that it took a long
while to make a fair showing in the baskets.
When no more bulbs could be found, the baskets were put on the ground
in groups, and the mothers carefully leaned their bickooses against
them in such positions that the wide awake papooses could look out from
under their shades and smile and sputter at each other in quaint Indian
baby-talk; and the sleeping could sleep on undisturbed.
That done, the squaws built a roaring fire, and one of them untied a
bundle of hardwood sticks which she had brought for the purpose, and
stuck them around under the fuel in touch with the hottest parts of the
burning mass. When the ends glowed like long-lasting coals, the waiting
crowd snatched them from their bed and rushed into the low thicket
which grew in the marsh. I followed with my fire-brand, but, not
knowing what to do with it, simply watched the Indians stick theirs
into the bushes, sometimes high up, sometimes low down.
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