The call rang far out over the water and came echoing back from the surrounding hills, and before the echoes had died away it was answered from the depths of the wood, and then shadowy figures came stealing forward from between the tall trees, a silent file that came winding down to the Council Rock in a stately procession.  The circle closed around Nyoda and she stooped to kindle the fire.  As the bow flashed quickly back and forth and the drill whirled in its center, a low, musical chant rose from the circle: 

  “Keep rolling, keep rolling,
  Keep the fire sticks
  Briskly rolling, rolling,
  Grinding the wood dust,
  Smoke arises! 
  Smoke arises! 
  Ah, the smoke, sweetly scented,
  It will rise, it will rise, it will rise!”

The chant swelled out in volume to a dramatic climax as a puff of smoke burst forth beneath the point of the whirling drill.  Nyoda adroitly caught the spark in a bed of tinder and raised it to her lips, blowing gently to fan it into flame, while the chant was resumed: 

  “Dusky forest now darker grown,
  Broods in silence o’er its own,
  Till the wee spark to a flame has blown,
  And living fire leaps up to greet
  The song of Wohelo.”

The “wee spark” turned into a tiny point of flame and the tinder burst out into a merry blaze.  Nyoda dropped it into the pile of fagots and the ceremonial fire was kindled, while the Winnebagos sprang to their feet, ready to sing, “Burn, fire, burn.”

When that had been sung the Winnebagos still remained on their feet.  There was a moment of silence and then they sang a hearty cheer: 

  “Oh, we cheer, oh, we cheer for Wohelo,
  For our comrades and friends so true,
  And our loyalty ever shall linger,
  Oh, Nakwisi, we sing to you! 
  Oh, Chapa, we sing to you! 
  Oh, Medmangi, we sing to you!”

  “Oh, Katherine, here’s to you,
  Our hearts will e’er be true,
  We will never find your equal
  Though we search the whole world through!”

They were singing to the absent Winnebagos who would always be present in spirit wherever the Winnebagos were gathered together.

Agony and Oh-Pshaw were touched and felt a lump rising in their throats; it was so beautiful, this bond of affection between the Winnebagos.  They were completely carried away by the dramatic atmosphere of a Winnebago Council Fire.  They had never taken part in such an elaborate one.  Both of them, by spasmodic efforts, had attained the rank of Fire Maker in the group to which they had formerly belonged, whose Guardian had meant well enough, but had neither the time nor the talent to become a successful Camp Fire leader.  The group had never accomplished much, and had finally drifted apart, as many groups do, for lack of a powerful welding influence.