Even the Iroquois Indian, born without fear, stoic, indifferent to
physical pain, even he wrapped his blanket closer about his head, held
his pipe pendent in nerveless fingers, and softly chanted an appeal to
the Okies of his forebears, forgetting the God of the black-robed
fathers in his fear of never again seeing the peaceful hills and
valleys of Onondaga or tasting the sweet waters of familiar springs.
For here was evil water, of which no man might drink to quench his
thirst; there were no firebrands to throw into the face of the North
Wind; there was no trail, to follow or to retrace. O for his mat by
the fire in the Long House, with the young braves and old warriors
sprawling around, recounting the victories of the hunt!
Only the seamen and the priests went about unconcerned, untroubled,
tranquil, the one knowing his sea and the other his God. There was
something reassuring in the serenity of the black cassocks as they went
hither and thither, offering physical and spiritual assistance. They
inspired the timid and the fearful, many of whom still believed that
the world had its falling-off place. And seasickness overcame many.
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