tribes, is a curious one.  One of the belles of the tribe leads a man into the dancing apartment, which consists of one of two tepees thrown together.  In one are the tomtom beaters, in the other the dancers.  In this room the couple begin to dance, making signs to each other, the meaning of which may be:  “Well, what do you think of me?  Do you like me?  Do you think me pretty?  How do I affect you?” and so on, the signs all being closely watched by the spectators, who applaud, giggle, chuckle or laugh uproariously by turns, as the case may be.  Such a dance is a questioning bee, a collision of wits on the part of two really facetious Indians.

Wit is a universal trait of the savage.  Some white men draw.  All Indians draw.  Some white men are cunning.  All Indians are cunning.  Some white men are humorous.  All Indians are witty.  Dry wit, with a proverbial philosophy in it which would have delighted the soul of Tupper, is indigenous to the Indian.  The Indian is the finest epigrammist on earth.  His sentences are pithy and sententious, because short—­never long and involved.  A book of Indian wit and wisdom would have an enormous sale, and reveal the very core of his thought on a typical scale.

The Indian flirt is sweet, saucy, subtle, seductive.  She has the art of keeping in stock constantly about her a score of bucks, each one of whom flatters himself that he, and he alone, is the special object of her admiration.  Every tribe has had its belle.  Poquite for the Modocs, Ur-ska-te-na for the Navajos, Mini-haha for the Dakotas, Romona for the neighboring bands.  These belles have their foes among Indian women, but, however cordially hated, they never brawl or come to blows.

Love-making is one of the interesting night scenes in an Indian camp.  When a young man wants to court a pretty red couquette, he stands at the door of his lodge on a bright day and flashes a ray of light from his sun-glass on the face of his sweetheart far away.  She sees the ray as it falls on her, and follows in the direction whence it is thrown, right or left.  She understands the secret of these flash lights.  Soon the lovers meet, each under a blanket; not a word, not a salutation is exchanged; they stand near each other for a time and then retire, only to repeat the affair day after day.

At last, upon some favorable night, the Indian youth visits the door of her lodge; she comes out and sits down on the ground beside him; still no word is spoken.  At last she arises from the ground; he also rises, and standing before her, throws his blanket over both of them.  No sooner has he done so than she doffs her blanket, letting it fall upon the ground, which is the admission on her part that she loves him, and does him obeisance as her future lord and master.

Every Indian camp at night is full of such lovers, with wooings as sweet, lips as willing, embraces as fond, lives as romantic, hearts as true, and elopements as daring and desperate as ever graced a Spanish court.  The old people come together with their friends and hold a council.  “How many ponies can he pay for her?” has a good deal to do with the eligibility of the suitor.  That night he brings his articles of dowry to the door of his fiancee.  If they are still there next morning, he is rejected; if not, accepted.