Another feast, quite similar, and known as the Night Dance, is often held at private houses, and is managed by women alone. The forms of the dance are a little different, and there is no midnight feast. This is also for the sick, and has similar tunes. It has some comic features. When the Indian boys hear of a meeting of this kind, they plan how they may steal “the head.” At intervals the lights are put out for a few minutes, and then is their chance. One or more chickens are boiled or roasted, and are known as “the head” of the feast. Usually a kettle is placed in the middle of the circle of women, and the chicken is in the soup.
Albert Cusick told me his early experiences at two of these feasts, which will illustrate one prominent feature which I have mentioned. On one occasion the boys saw that there was no kettle in the circle, while there was a cluster of women about the pantry door. They understood the situation, but the door could not be passed. An active lad quietly made his way through the pantry window, found a pan with two roast chickens in it, secured some corn bread and other good things, and got off unobserved. The booty was carried to the green by the council-house, and eaten with a hearty relish; then the pan, with the bones, was slipped back into the pantry, and the boys, according to the old custom, began to caw, like crows. All seemed safe, however, and the others made fun of them. “You are all frauds. You haven’t found the head. We have that safe.” So the dances went on. A speech was made at the close. One head was to go to the speaker and the other to the singers.
But when they got there the cupboard was bare, And so the poor singers had none.
A dance of this kind was held at the house of my old friend, Mary Green, one night. Her home was a good-sized log cabin, fairly furnished, and the feast was well attended. The boys ran around, imitating hungry crows, but with small chance of getting “the head.” The circle of women remained unbroken around the stove in the centre of the room, and on the stove was a big kettle of soup, with “the head” in the midst of all. The soup was hot, and the kettle inaccessible. Several tried to crawl through the circle on their hands and knees, but failed. At last one got through in the dark interval, burned his fingers indeed, but put the chicken in a pail and successfully made off. The triumphant crows were soon heard again.