"De prairie-dog a mighty cur'ous somebody," he began one day, when they asked him for a tale. "Hit lives in de ground, more samer dan a ground-hog. But dey ain't come out for wood nor water; an' some folks thinks dey goes plumb down to de springs what feeds wells. I has knowed dem what say dey go fur enough down to find a place to warm dey hands—but dat ain't de tale I'm tellin'.

"A long time ago, dey was a prairie-dog what was left a widder, an' she had a big fambly to keep up. 'Oh, landy!' she say to dem dat come to visit her in her 'fliction, 'what I gwine do to feed my chillen?'

"De most o' de varmints tell Miz. Prairie-Dog dat de onliest way for her to git along was to keep boarders. 'You got a good home, an' you is a good manager,' dey say; 'you bound to do well wid a boardin'-house.'

"Well, Miz. Prairie-Dog done sent out de runners to run, de fliers to fly, de crawlers to crawl, an' tell each an' every dat she sot up a boardin'-house. She say she got room for one crawler and one flier, an' dat she could take in a whole passel o' runners.

"Well, now you knows a flier 's a bird—or hit mought be a bat. Ef you was lookin' for little folks, hit mought be a butterfly. Miz. Prairie-Dog ain't find no fliers what wants to live un'neath de ground. But crawlers—bugs an' worms an' sich-like—dey mostly does live un'neath de ground, anyhow, an' de fust pusson what come seekin' house-room with Miz. Prairie-Dog was Brother Rattlesnake.

"'I dest been flooded out o' my own house,' Mr. Rattlesnake say; 'an' I like to look at your rooms an' see ef dey suits me.'

"'I show you de rooms,' Miz. Prairie-Dog tell 'im. 'I bound you gwine like 'em. I got room for one crawler, an' you could be him; but—'

"Miz. Prairie-Dog look at her chillen. She ain't say no more—dest look at dem prairie-dog gals an' boys, an' say no more.

"Mr. Rattlesnake ain't like bein' called a crawler so very well; but he looks at dem rooms, an' 'low he'll take 'em. Miz. Prairie-Dog got somethin' on her mind, an' 'fore de snake git away dat somethin' come out. 'I's shore an' certain dat you an' me can git along,' she say, 'ef—ef—ef you vow an' promish not to bite my chillen. I'll have yo' meals reg'lar, so dat you won't be tempted.'

"Old Mr. Rattlesnake' powerful high-tempered—yas, law, he sho' a mighty quick somebody on de trigger. Zip! he go off, dest like dat—zip! Br-r-r! 'Tempted!' he hiss at de prairie-dog woman. He look at dem prairie-dog boys an' gals what been makin' mud cakes all mornin' (an' dest about as dirty as you-all is after you do de same). 'Tempted,' he say. 'I should hope not.'

"For, mind you, Brother Rattlesnake is a genterman, an' belongs to de quality. He feels hisself a heap too biggity to bite prairie-dogs. So dat turned out all right.

"De next what come to Miz. Prairie-Dog was a flier."

"A bird?" asked Patricia Randolph.

"Yes, little mistis," returned the old Indian. "One dese-hyer little, round, brown squinch-owls, what allers quakes an' quivers in dey speech an' walk. 'I gits so dizzy—izzy—wizzy! up in de top o' de trees,' de little brown owl say, as she swivel an' shake. 'An' I wanted to git me a home down on de ground, so dat I could be sure, an' double sure, dat I wouldn't fall. But dey is dem dat says ef I was down on de ground I might fall down a hole. Dat make me want to live in yo' house. Hit's down in de ground, ain't hit? Ef I git down in yo' house dey hain't no place for me to fall off of, an' fall down to, is dey?' she ax.



"Miz. Prairie-Dog been in de way o' fallin' down-stairs all her life; dat de onliest way she ever go inter her house—she fling up her hands an' laugh as you pass her by, and she drap back in de hole. But she tell de little brown owl dat dey ain't no place you could fall ef you go to de bottom eend o' her house. So, what wid a flier an' a crawler, an' de oldest prairie-dog boy workin' out, she manage to make tongue and buckle meet. I's went by a many a prairie-dog hole an' seen de owl an' de rattlesnake what boards wid Miz. Prairie-Dog. Ef you was to go to Texas you'd see de same. But nobody in dat neck o' woods ever knowed how dese folks come to live in one house."

"Who told you, Daddy Laban?" asked Pate Randolph.

"My Injun gran'mammy," returned the old man. "She told me a many a tale, when I lived wid my daddy's people on de Cherokee Res'vation. Sometime I gwine tell you 'bout de little fawn what her daddy ketched for her when she 's a little gal. But run home now, honey chillens, or yo' mammy done think Daddy Laban stole you an' carried you plumb away."

II.—SONNY BUNNY RABBIT'S GRANNY

Of all the animal stories which America, the nurse-girl, told to the children of Broadlands plantation, they liked best those about Sonny Bunny Rabbit.

"You listen now, Marse Pate an' Miss Patty an' my baby child, an' I gwine tell you de best tale yit, 'bout de rabbit," she said, one lazy summer afternoon when they were tired of playing marbles with china-berries.

"You see, de fox he mighty hongry all de time for rabbit meat; yit, at de same time, he 'fraid to buck up 'gainst a old rabbit, an' he always pesterin' after de young ones.

"Sonny Bunny Rabbit' granny was sick, an' Sonny Bunny Rabbit' mammy want to send her a mess o' sallet. She put it in a poke, an' hang de poke round de little rabbit boy's neck.



"'Now, my son,' she says, 'you tote dis sallet to yo' granny, an' don't stop to play wid none o' dey critters in de Big Woods.'

"'Yassum, mammy,' say Sonny Bunny Rabbit.

"'Don't you pass de time o' day wid no foxes,' say Mammy Rabbit.

"'Yassum, mammy,' say Sonny Bunny Rabbit.

"Dest as he was passin' some thick chinkapin bushes, up hop a big red fox an' told him howdy.

"'Howdy,' say Sonny Bunny Rabbit. He ain't study 'bout what his mammy tell him now. He 'bleege to stop an' make a miration at bein' noticed by sech a fine pusson as Mr. Fox. 'Hit's a fine day—an' mighty growin' weather, Mr. Fox.'

"'Hit am dat,' say de fox. 'Yaas, suh, hit sho'ly am dat. An' whar you puttin' out for, ef I mought ax?' he say, mighty slick an' easy.

"Now right dar," said America, impressively, "am whar dat little rabbit boy fergit his teachin'. He act like he ain't know nothin'—an ain't know dat right good. 'Stead o' sayin', 'I's gwine whar I's gwine—an' dat's whar I's gwine,' he answer right back: 'Dest 'cross de hill, suh. Won't you walk wid me, suh? Proud to have yo' company, suh.'



"'An' who-all is you gwine see on t' other side de hill?' ax Mr. Fox.

"'My granny,' answer Sonny Bunny Rabbit. 'I totin' dis sallet to her.'

"'Is yo' granny big?' ax de fox. 'Is yo' granny old?' he say. 'Is yo' granny mighty pore? Is yo' granny tough?' An' he ain't been nigh so slick an' sof' an' easy any mo' by dis time—he gittin' mighty hongry an' greedy.

"Right den an dere Sonny Bunny Rabbit wake up. Yaas, law! He come to he senses. He know mighty well an' good dat a pusson de size o' Mr. Fox ain't got no reason to ax ef he granny tough, less'n he want to git he teef in her. By dat he recomember what his mammy done told him. He look all 'bout. He ain't see no he'p nowhars. Den hit come in Sonny Bunny Rabbit' mind dat de boys on de farm done sot a trap down by de pastur' fence. Ef he kin git Mr. Fox to jump inter dat trap, his life done save.

"'Oh, my granny mighty big,' he say; 'but dat 's 'ca'se she so fat she cain't run. She hain't so mighty old, but she sleep all de time; an' I ain't know is she tough or not—you dest better come on an' find out,' he holler. Den he start off on er long, keen jump.

"Sonny Bunny Rabbit run as hard as he could. De fox run after, most nippin' his heels. Sonny Bunny Rabbit run by de place whar de fox-trap done sot, an' all kivered wid leaves an' trash, an' dar he le'p high in the air—an' over it. Mr. Fox ain't know dey ary trap in de grass; an', blam! he stuck he foot squar' in it!

"'Oh-ow-ow! Hi-hi-hi! Hi-yi! Yi-yi-yi!' bark de fox. 'Come back hyer, you rabbit trash, an' he'p me out o' dis trouble!' he holler.

"'Dat ain't no trouble,' say Sonny Bunny Rabbit, jumping high in de grass. 'Dat my granny, what I done told you 'bout. Ain't I say she so fat she cain't run? She dest love company so powerful well, dat I 'spect she holdin' on to you to hear you talk.'

"An' de fox talk," America giggled, as she looked about on her small audience.











ROBIN REDBREAST

There was once a hunter who had only one son, and when his son grew up he said to him: "My son, I am growing old, and you must hunt for me."

"Very well, father," said his son, and he took his father's bow and arrows and went out into the woods. But he was a dreamy boy, and forgot what he had come for, and spent the morning wondering at the beautiful flowers, and trees, and mosses, and hills, and valleys that he saw. When he saw a bird on a tree, he forgot that he had come to shoot it, and lay listening to its song; and when he saw a deer come down to drink at the stream he put down his bow and arrows and began to talk to the deer in the deer's own language. At last he saw that the sun was setting. Then he looked round for his bow and arrows, and they were gone!

When he got home to the wigwam, his father met him at the door and said: "My son, you have had a long day's hunting. Have you killed so much that you had to leave it in the woods? Let us go and fetch it together."

The young man looked very much ashamed of himself, and said: "Father, I forgot all about the hunting. The woods, and the sky, and the flowers, and the birds, and the beasts were so interesting that I forgot all about what you had sent me to do."

His father was in a terrible rage with him, and in the morning he sent him out again, with new bow and arrows, saying: "Take care that you don't forget this time."

The son went along saying to himself: "I mustn't forget, I mustn't forget, I mustn't forget." But as soon as a bird flew across the path he forgot all about what his father had said, and called to the bird in the bird's own language, and the bird came and sat on the tree above him, and sang to him so beautifully all day that the young man sat as if he was dreaming till sunset.

"Oh dear!" said the young man, "what shall I do? My father will kill me if I go back without anything to eat."

"Never mind," said the bird; "if he kills you, we shall give you feathers and paint, and you can fly away and be a bird like ourselves."

When the young man reached the village he scarcely dared to go near his father's wigwam; but his father saw him coming, and ran to meet him, calling out in a hurry; "What have you brought? What have you brought?"

"I have brought nothing, father; nothing at all," said the boy.

His father was angrier than ever, and in the morning he said: "Come with me. No more bow and arrows for you, and not a bite to eat, till I have taught you to be a hunter like any other good Indian." So he took his son into the middle of the forest, and there built for him a little wigwam, with no door, only a little hole in the side.

"There!" said his father, when the young man was inside, and the wigwam was laced up tight. "When you have lived and fasted in this wigwam for twelve days, the spirit of a hunter will come into you."

Every day the young man's father came to see him, and every day the young man begged for food, till at last, on the tenth day, he could only beg in a whisper.

"No!" said his father. "In two days more you can both hunt and eat."

On the eleventh day, when the father came and spoke to his son, he got no answer. Looking through the hole, he saw the lad lying as if he was dead on the ground; but when he called out aloud his son awoke, and whispered: "Father, bring me food! Give me some food!"

"No," said his father. "You have only one day more to wait. To-morrow you will hunt and eat." And he went away home to the village.

On the twelfth day the father came loaded with meal and meat. As he came near to the wigwam he heard a curious chirping sound, and when he looked through the hole in the wigwam he saw his son standing up inside, and painting his breast with bright red paint.

"What are you doing, my son? Come and eat! Here is meal and meat for you. Come and eat and hunt like a good Indian."

But the son could only reply in a chirping little voice: "It is too late, father. You have killed me at last, and now I am becoming a bird." And as he spoke he turned into the o-pe-che—the robin redbreast—and flew out of the hole and away to join the other birds; but he never flew very far from where men live.

The cruel father set out to go back to his wigwam; but he could never find the village again, and after he had wandered about a long time he lay down in the forest and died; and soon afterward the redbreast found him, and buried him under a heap of dry leaves. Every year after that, when the time of the hunter's fast came round, the redbreast perched on his father's empty wigwam and sang the song of the dead.



THE THREE WISHES

Once upon a time there were three brothers who set out on a visit to Goose-cap, the wise one, who said that any one might come and see him, and get a wish—just one wish, no more. The three brothers were seven years on the journey, climbing mountains that seemed to have no top, and scrambling through forests full of thorn-bushes, and wading through swamps where the mosquitoes tried to eat them up, and sailing down rivers where the rapids broke up their rafts and nearly drowned them.

At the end of seven years they heard Goose-cap's dogs barking, so then they knew they were on the right road; and they went on for three months more, and the barking got a little louder every day, till at last they came to the edge of the great lake. Then Goose-cap saw them, and sailed over in his big stone canoe and took them to his island.

You never saw such a beautiful island as that was, it was so green and warm and bright; and Goose-cap feasted his visitors for three days and nights, with meats and fruits that they had never tasted before. Then he said: "Tell me what you want, and why you have taken so much trouble to find me."

The youngest brother said: "I want to be always amusing, so that no one can listen to me without laughing."

Then the great wise one stuck his finger in the ground, and pulled up a root of the laughing-plant and said: "When you have eaten this you will be the funniest man in the tribe, and people will laugh as soon as you open your lips. But see that you don't eat it till you get home."

The youngest brother thanked him, and hurried away; and going home was so easy that it only took seven days instead of seven years. Yet the young man was so impatient to try his wish that on the sixth morning he ate the root. All of a sudden he felt so light-headed that he began to dance and shout with fun: and the ducks that he was going to shoot for breakfast flew away laughing into the reeds over the river, and the deer ran away laughing into the woods, and he got nothing to eat all day.

Next morning he came to the village where he lived, and he wanted to tell his friends how hungry he was; but at the first word he spoke they all burst out laughing, and as he went on they laughed louder and louder—it seemed so funny, though they couldn't hear a word he said, they made so much noise themselves. Then they got to laughing so hard that they rolled over and over on the ground, and squeezed their sides, and cried with laughing, till they had to run away into their houses and shut their doors, or they would have been killed with laughing. He called to them to come out and give him something to eat, but as soon as they heard him they began to laugh again; and at last they shouted that if he didn't go away they would kill him. So he went away into the woods and lived by himself; and whenever he wanted to hunt he had to tie a strap over his mouth, or the mock-bird would hear him and begin to laugh, and all the other birds and beasts would hear the mock-bird and laugh and run away.

The second brother said to Goose-cap; "I want to be the greatest of hunters without the trouble of hunting. Why should I go after the animals if I could make them come to me?"

Goose-cap knew why; still, he gave the man a little flute, saying: "Be sure you don't use it till after you have got home."

Then the hunter set off; but on the sixth day he was getting so near home that he said to himself: "I'm sure Goose-cap couldn't hear me now if I blew the flute very gently, just to try it." So he pulled out the flute and breathed into it as gently as ever he could—but as soon as his lips touched it the flute whistled so long and loud that all the beasts in the country heard it and came rushing from north and south and east and west to see what the matter was. The deer got there first, and when they saw it was a man with bow and arrows they tried to run away again; but they couldn't, for the bears were close behind, all round, and pushed and pushed till the deer were all jammed up together and the man was squeezed to death in the middle of them.

The eldest brother, when the other two had set off for home, said to Goose-cap: "Give me great wisdom, so that I can marry the Mohawk chief's daughter without killing her father or getting killed myself." You see, the eldest brother was an Algonquin, and the Mohawks always hated the Algonquins.

Goose-cap stooped down on the shore and picked up a hard clam-shell; and he ground it and ground it, all that day and all the next night, till he had made a beautiful wampum bead of it. "Hang this round your neck by a thread of flax," he said, "and go and do whatever the chief asks you."

The eldest brother thanked him, and left the beautiful island, and traveled seven days and seven nights till he came to the Mohawk town. He went straight to the chief's house, and said to him, "I want to marry your daughter."

"Very well," said the chief, "you can marry my daughter if you bring me the head of the great dragon that lives in the pit outside the gate."

The eldest brother promised he would, and went out and cut down a tree and laid it across the mouth of the pit. Then he danced round the pit, and sang as he danced a beautiful Algonquin song, something like this: "Come and eat me, dragon, for I am fat and my flesh is sweet and there is plenty of marrow in my bones." The dragon was asleep, but the song gave him beautiful dreams, and he uncoiled himself and smacked his lips and stretched his head up into the air and laid his neck on the log. Then the eldest brother cut off the head; snick-snack, and carried it to the chief.

"That's right," said the chief; but he was angry in his heart, and next morning, when he should have given away his daughter, he said to the Algonquin: "I will let you marry her if I see that you can dive as well as the wild duck in the lake."

When they got to the lake the wild duck dived and stayed under water for three minutes, but then it had to come up to breathe. Then the eldest brother dived, and turned into a frog, and stayed under water so long that they were sure he was drowned; but just as they were going home, singing for joy to be rid of him, he came running after them, and said: "Now I have had my bath and we can go and get married."

"Wait till the evening," said the chief, "and then you can get married."

When the evening came, the Northern Lights were dancing and leaping in the sky, and the chief said: "The Northern Lights would be angry if you got married without running them a race. Run your best and win, and there will be no more delay."

The Northern Lights darted away at once to the west, and the eldest brother ran after them; and the chief said to his daughter: "They will lead him right down to the other side of the world, and he will be an old man before he can get back, so he won't trouble us any more." But just as the chief finished speaking, here came the Algonquin running up from the east. He had turned himself into lightning and gone right round the world; and the night was nearly gone before the Northern Lights came up after him, panting and sputtering.

"Yes, my son," said the chief; "you have won the race; so now we can go on with the wedding. The place where we have our weddings is down by the river at the bottom of the valley, and we will go there on our toboggans."

Now the hillside was rough with rocks and trees, and the river flowed between steep precipices, so nobody could toboggan down there without being broken to pieces. But the eldest brother said he was ready, and asked the chief to come on the same toboggan.

"No," said the chief, "but as soon as you have started I will."

Then the Algonquin gave his toboggan a push, and jumped on, and didn't even take the trouble to sit down. The chief waited to see him dashed to pieces; but the toboggan skimmed down the mountain side without touching a rock or a tree, and flew across the ravine at the bottom, and up the hillside opposite; and the Algonquin was standing straight up the whole time. When he got to the top of the mountain opposite he turned his toboggan round and coasted back as he had come. And when the chief saw him coming near and standing up on his toboggan, he lost his temper and let fly an arrow straight at the young man's heart; but the arrow stuck in Goose-cap's bead, and the Algonquin left it sticking there and took no notice. Only when he got to the top he said to the chief, "Now it's your turn," and put him on the toboggan and sent him spinning down into the valley. And whether the chief ever came up again we don't know; but at any rate his daughter married the Algonquin without any more fuss, and went home with him.



THE JOKER

This story is about Lox. He called himself the joker, and he was very proud of his jokes; but nobody else could see anything in them to laugh at.

One day he came to a wigwam where two old Indians were taking a nap beside the fire. He picked out a burning stick, held it against their bare feet, and then ran out and hid behind the tent. The old men sprang up, and one of them shouted to the other:

"How dare you burn my feet?"

"How dare you burn my feet?" roared the other, and sprang at his throat.

When he heard them fighting Lox laughed out loud, and the old men ran out to catch the man who had tricked them. When they got round the tent they found nothing but a dead coon. They took off its skin, and put its body into the pot of soup that was boiling for dinner. As soon as they had sat down, out jumped Lox, kicking over the pot and putting out the fire with the soup. He jumped right into the coon's skin and scurried away into the wood.

In the middle of the forest Lox came upon a camp where a party of women were sitting round a fire making pouches.

"Dear me," said Lox, looking very kind. (He had put on his own skin by this time.) "That's very slow work! Now, when I want to make a pouch I do it in two minutes, without sewing a stitch."

"I should like to see you do it!" said one of the women.

"Very well," said he. So he took a piece of skin, and a needle and twine, and a handful of beads, and stuffed them in among the burning sticks. In two minutes he stooped down again and pulled a handsome pouch out of the fire.

"Wonderful!" said the women; and they all stuffed their pieces of buckskin and handfuls of beads into the fire.

"Be sure you pull the bags out in two minutes," said Lox. "I will go and hunt for some more buckskin."

In two minutes the women raked out the fire, and found nothing but scraps of scorched leather and half-melted glass. Then they were very angry, and ran after the joker; but he had turned himself into a coon again and hidden in a hollow tree. When they had all gone back to their ruined work he came down and went on his mischievous way.

When he came out of the wood he saw a village by the side of a river. Outside one of the wigwams a woman was nursing a baby, and scolding it because it cried.

"What a lot of trouble children are," said Lox. "What a pity that people don't make men of them at once, instead of letting them take years to grow up."

The woman stared. "How can a baby be turned into a man?" she asked.

"Oh, it's easy enough," said he. So she lent him her baby, and he took it down to the river and held it under the water for a few minutes, saying magical words all the time; and then a full-grown Indian jumped out of the water, with a feather head-dress, and beaded blankets, and a bow and quiver slung over his back.

"Wonderful! Wonderful!" said his mother, and she hurried back to the village to tell her friends the secret. The last thing Lox saw as he hurried away into the wood was a score of mothers drowning their children.

On the path in front of him Lox spied a couple of maidens, and they were trying to reach the fruit that grew on a wild plum-tree. The joker stepped on one side and broke a twig off another plum-tree and stuck it in his hair. The twig sprouted fast, and grew into a little plum-tree with big plums hanging from its twigs. He went along the path, picking and eating the plums as he walked, till he came up with the girls.

"Wonderful!" said they. "Do you think we could get plums like that?"

"Easily," said he and he broke off two little twigs. "Stick these in your hair, and you will have head-dresses like mine."

As soon as the twigs were stuck in their hair the little plum-trees began to grow, and the maidens danced with joy, and picked the juicy plums and ate them. But the trees went on growing, and the roots twisted in among the maidens' hair and clutched their heads like iron fingers. The girls sat down, for they couldn't carry all that weight standing. And still the trees grew, till the girls lay down on the ground and screamed for some one to come and rescue them. Presently their father came along, and he pulled his axe out of his belt and chopped off the trees, and tugged at the roots till they came off—but all the maidens' hair came off too. By this time Lox took care to be scampering away through the wood in the shape of a coon.

When he came near the next village Lox put on a terrified face and began to run; and he rushed into the middle of the village, shouting: "The plague is coming! The plague is coming!"

All the people flocked out of their wigwams, crying: "Where is it coming from? Which way shall we fly?"

"Stay where you are and make your minds easy," said Lox. "I have a charm that will keep off all the plagues under the sun. As soon as I have spoken the words, every man must kiss the girl nearest him." Then he stretched up his hands toward the sun and said some gibberish; and when he stopped and let his arms fall, each man made a rush and kissed the girl who happened to be nearest.

But there were not quite as many girls as there were men, and one old bachelor was so slow and clumsy that every girl had been kissed before he could catch one.

"Never mind," said Lox cheerfully. "You go to the next village and try again."

So the old bachelor set out, plod, plod, plodding through the woods. But Lox turned himself into a coon again, and scampered from tree to tree, and got first to the village. When he told the people the plague was coming, and they asked how they could avoid it, he said: "When I have spoken my charm, all the girls must set upon any stranger that comes to the village, and beat him." Then he flung his arms up and began talking his gibberish. Presently the old bachelor came up, hot and panting, and stood close to the handsomest girl he could see, all ready to kiss her as soon as the charm ended. But as soon as Lox finished, the maidens all set upon the stranger, and beat him till he ran away into the woods.

Then the people made a great feast for Lox; and when he had eaten his fill of deer-meat and honey, he marched off to play his tricks somewhere else. He had not gone very far when he came to the Kulloo's nest. Now the Kulloo was the biggest of the birds, and when he spread his wings he made night come at noonday; and he built his nest of the biggest pine-trees he could find, instead of straws. The Kulloo was away, but his wife was at home trying to hatch her eggs. Lox was not hungry; but he turned himself into a serpent, and crept into the nest and under Mrs. Kulloo's wing, and bit a hole in every egg and ate up the little Kulloos. When he had done this, he was so heavy and stupid that he couldn't walk very far before he had to lie down and go to sleep.

Presently the Kulloo came home.

"How are you getting on, my dear?" he said.

"Not very well, I'm afraid," she said. "The eggs seem to get cold, no matter how close I sit."

"Let me take a turn while you go and stretch your wings," said the Kulloo. But when he sat down on the empty eggs they all broke with a great crash.

The Kulloo flew off in a terrible rage to find the wretch who had eaten up the eggs, and very soon he spied Lox snoring on the grass.

"Now I've caught him," said the Kulloo; "it's Lox, the mischief-maker."

He pounced down, and caught hold of Lox by the hair and carried him a mile up into the sky, and then let go. Of course, Lox was broken into pieces when he struck the earth, but he just had time as he fell to say his strongest magic:

"Backbone! Backbone! Save my backbone!"

So as soon as the Kulloo was out of sight the arms and legs and head began to wriggle together round the backbone, and then in a twinkling Lox was whole again.

"I shouldn't like that to happen very often," he said, looking himself over to see if every piece had joined in the right place. "I think I'll go home and take a rest."

But he had traveled so far that he was six months' journey from his home; and he had made so many enemies, and done so much mischief, that whenever he came into a village and asked food and shelter the people hooted and pelted him out again. The birds and the beasts got to know when he was coming, and kept so far out of his way that he couldn't get enough to eat, not even by his magic. Besides, he had wasted his magic so much that scarcely any was left. The winter came on, and he was cold as well as hungry, when at last he reached a solitary wigwam by a frozen river. The master of the wigwam didn't know him, so he treated him kindly, and said, when they parted next morning:

"You have only three days more to go; but the frost-wind is blowing colder and colder, and if you don't do as I say you will never get home. When night comes, break seven twigs from a maple-tree and stand them up against each other, like the poles of a wigwam, and jump over them. Do the same the next night, and the night after that if you are not quite home; but you can only do it thrice."

Away went the joker, swaggering through the woods as if nothing had happened to him, for now he was warm and full. But soon the wind began to rise, and it blew sharper and sharper, and bit his face, and pricked in through his blanket.

"I'm not going to be cold while I know how to be warm," said he; and he built a little wigwam of sticks, and jumped over it. The sticks blazed up, and went on burning furiously for an hour. Then they died out suddenly. Lox groaned and went on his way. In the afternoon he stopped again, and lit another fire to warm himself by; but again the fire went out. When night came on he made his third fire wigwam; and that one burned all night long, and only went out when it was time for him to begin the day's march.

All day he tramped over the snow, never daring to stop for more than a few minutes at a time for fear of being frozen to death. At night he built another little wigwam; but the twigs wouldn't light, however often he jumped over them. On he tramped, getting more and more tired and drowsy, till at last he fell in his tracks and froze. And that was the end of Lox and his jokes.



LITTLE MOCCASIN'S RIDE ON THE THUNDER-HORSE

BY COLONEL GUIDO ILGES

"Little Moccasin" was, at the time we speak of, fourteen years old, and about as mischievous a boy as could be found anywhere in the Big Horn mountains. Unlike his comrades of the same age, who had already killed buffaloes and stolen horses from the white men and the Crow Indians, with whom Moccasin's tribe, the Uncapapas, were at war, he preferred to lie under a shady tree in the summer, or around the camp-fire in winter, listening to the conversation of the old men and women, instead of going upon expeditions with the warriors and the hunters.

The Uncapapas were a very powerful and numerous tribe of the great Sioux Nation, and before Uncle Sam's soldiers captured and removed them, and before the Northern Pacific Railroad entered the territory of Montana, they occupied the beautiful valleys of the Rosebud, Big and Little Horn, Powder and Redstone rivers, all of which empty into the grand Yellowstone Valley. In those days, before the white man had set foot upon these grounds, there was plenty of game, such as buffalo, elk, antelope, deer, and bear; and, as the Uncapapas were great hunters and good shots, the camp of Indians to which Little Moccasin belonged always had plenty of meat to eat and plenty of robes and hides to sell and trade for horses and guns, for powder and ball, for sugar and coffee, and for paint and flour. Little Moccasin showed more appetite than any other Indian in camp. In fact, he was always hungry, and used to eat at all hours, day and night. Buffalo meat he liked the best, particularly the part taken from the hump, which is so tender that it almost melts in the mouth.

When Indian boys have had a hearty dinner of good meat, they generally feel very happy and very lively. When hungry, they are sad and dull.

This was probably the reason why Little Moccasin was always so full of mischief, and always inventing tricks to play upon the other boys. He was a precocious and observing youngster, full of quaint and original ideas—never at a loss for expedients.

But he was once made to feel very sorry for having played a trick, and I must tell my young readers how it happened.

"Running Antelope," one of the great warriors and the most noted orator of the tribe, had returned from a hunt, and Mrs. Antelope was frying for him a nice buffalo steak—about as large as two big fists—over the coals. Little Moccasin, who lived in the next street of tents, smelled the feast, and concluded that he would have some of it. In the darkness of the night he slowly and carefully crawled toward the spot, where Mistress Antelope sat holding in one hand a long stick, at the end of which the steak was frying. Little Moccasin watched her closely, and seeing that she frequently placed her other hand upon the ground beside her and leaned upon it for support, he soon formed a plan for making her drop the steak.

He had once or twice in his life seen a pin, but he had never owned one, and he could not have known what use is sometimes made of them by bad white boys. He had noticed, however, that some of the leaves of the larger varieties of the prickly-pear cactus-plant are covered with many thorns, as long and as sharp as an ordinary pin.

So when Mrs. Antelope again sat down and looked at the meat to see if it was done, he slyly placed half-a-dozen of the cactus leaves upon the very spot of ground upon which Mrs. Antelope had before rested her left hand.

Then the young mischief crawled noiselessly into the shade and waited for his opportunity, which came immediately.

When the unsuspecting Mrs. Antelope again leaned upon the ground, and felt the sharp points of the cactus leaves, she uttered a scream, and dropped from her other hand the stick and the steak, thinking only of relief from the sharp pain.

Then, on the instant, the young rascal seized the stick and tried to run away with it. But Running Antelope caught him by his long hair, and gave him a severe whipping, declaring that he was a good-for-nothing boy, and calling him a "coffee-cooler" and a "squaw."

The other boys, hearing the rumpus, came running up to see the fun, and they laughed and danced over poor Little Moccasin's distress. Often afterward they called him "coffee-cooler"; which meant that he was cowardly and faint-hearted, and that he preferred staying in camp around the fire, drinking coffee, to taking part in the manly sports of hunting and stealing expeditions.

The night after the whipping, Little Moccasin could not sleep. The disgrace of the whipping and the name applied to him were too much for his vanity. He even lost his appetite, and refused some very nice prairie-dog stew which his mother offered him.

He was thinking of something else. He must do something brave—perform some great deed which no other Indian had ever performed—in order to remove this stain upon his character.

But what should it be? Should he go out alone and kill a bear? He had never fired a gun, and was afraid that the bear might eat him. Should he attack the Crow camp single-handed? No, no—not he; they would catch him and scalp him alive.

All night long he was thinking and planning; but when daylight came, he had reached no conclusion. He must wait for the Great Spirit to give him some ideas.

During the following day he refused all food and kept drawing his belt tighter and tighter around his waist every hour, till, by evening, he had reached the last notch. This method of appeasing the pangs of hunger, adopted by the Indians when they have nothing to eat, is said to be very effective.

In a week's time Little Moccasin had grown almost as thin as a bean-pole, but no inspiration had yet revealed what he could do to redeem himself.

About this time a roving band of Cheyennes, who had been down to the mouth of the Little Missouri, and beyond, entered the camp upon a friendly visit. Feasting and dancing were kept up day and night, in honor of the guests; but Little Moccasin lay hidden in the woods nearly all the time.

During the night of the second day of their stay, he quietly stole to the rear of the great council-tepee, to listen to the pow-wow then going on. Perhaps he would there learn some words of wisdom which would give him an idea how to carry out his great undertaking.

After "Black Catfish," the great Cheyenne warrior, had related in the flowery language of his tribe some reminiscences of his many fights and brave deeds, "Strong Heart" spoke. Then there was silence for many minutes, during which the pipe of peace made the rounds, each warrior taking two or three puffs, blowing the smoke through the nose, pointing toward heaven and then handing the pipe to his left-hand neighbor.

"Strong Heart," "Crazy Dog," "Bow-String," "Dog-Fox," and "Smooth Elkhorn" spoke of the country they had just passed through.

Then again the pipe of peace was handed round, amid profound silence.

"Black Pipe," who was bent and withered with the wear and exposure of seventy-nine winters, and who trembled like some leafless tree shaken by the wind, but who was sound in mind and memory, then told the Uncapapas, for the first time, of the approach of a great number of white men, who were measuring the ground with long chains, and who were being followed by "Thundering Horses," and "Houses on Wheels." (He was referring to the surveying parties of the Northern Pacific Railway Company, who were just then at work on the crossing of the Little Missouri.)

With heart beating wildly, Little Moccasin listened to this strange story and then retired to his own blankets in his father's tepee.

Now he had found the opportunity he so long had sought! He would go across the mountains, all by himself, look at the thundering horses and the houses on wheels. He then would know more than any one in the tribe, and return to the camp,—a hero!

At early morn, having provided himself with a bow and a quiver full of arrows, without informing any one of his plan he stole out of camp, and, running at full speed, crossed the nearest mountain to the East.

Allowing himself little time for rest, pushing forward by day and night, and after fording many of the smaller mountain-streams, on the evening of the third day of his travel he came upon what he believed to be a well-traveled road. But—how strange!—there were two endless iron rails lying side by side upon the ground. Such a curious sight he had never beheld. There were also large poles, with glass caps, and connected by wire, standing along the roadside. What could all this mean?

Poor Little Moccasin's brain became so bewildered that he hardly noticed the approach of a freight-train drawn by the "Thundering Horse."

There was a shrill, long-drawn whistle, and immense clouds of black smoke; and the Thundering Horse was sniffing and snorting at a great rate, emitting from its nostrils large streams of steaming vapor. Besides all this, the earth, in the neighborhood of where Little Moccasin stood, shook and trembled as if in great fear; and to him the terrible noises the horse made were perfectly appalling.

Gradually the snorts, and the puffing, and the terrible noise lessened, until, all at once, they entirely ceased. The train had come to a stand-still at a watering tank, where the Thundering Horse was given its drink.

The rear car, or "House on Wheels," as old Black Pipe had called it, stood in close proximity to Little Moccasin,—who, in his bewilderment and fright at the sight of these strange moving houses, had been unable to move a step.

But as no harm had come to him from the terrible monster, Moccasin's heart, which had sunk down to the region of his toes, began to rise again; and the curiosity inherent in every Indian boy mastered fear.

He moved up, and down, and around the great House on Wheels; then he touched it in many places, first with the tip-end of one finger, and finally with both hands. If he could only detach a small piece from the house to take back to camp with him as a trophy and as a proof of his daring achievement! But it was too solid, and all made of heavy wood and iron.

At the rear end of the train there was a ladder, which the now brave Little Moccasin ascended with the quickness of a squirrel to see what there was on top.

It was gradually growing dark, and suddenly he saw (as he really believed) the full moon approaching him. He did not know that it was the headlight of a locomotive coming from the opposite direction.

Absorbed in this new and glorious sight, he did not notice the starting of his own car, until it was too late, for, while the car moved, he dared not let go his hold upon the brake-wheel.

There he was, being carried with lightning speed into a far-off, unknown country, over bridges, by the sides of deep ravines, and along the slopes of steep mountains.

But the Thundering Horse never tired nor grew thirsty again during the entire night.

At last, soon after the break of day, there came the same shrill whistle which had frightened him so much on the previous day; and, soon after, the train stopped at Miles City.

But, unfortunately for our little hero, there were a great many white people in sight; and he was compelled to lie flat upon the roof of his car, in order to escape notice. He had heard so much of the cruelty of the white men that he dared not trust himself among them.

Soon they started again, and Little Moccasin was compelled to proceed on his involuntary journey, which took him away from home and into unknown dangers.

At noon, the cars stopped on the open prairie to let Thundering Horse drink again. Quickly, and without being detected by any of the trainmen, he dropped to the ground from his high and perilous position. Then the train left him—all alone in an unknown country.

Alone? Not exactly; for, within a few minutes, half-a-dozen Crow Indians, mounted on swift ponies, are by his side, and are lashing him with whips and lassoes.

He has fallen into the hands of the deadliest enemies of his tribe, and has been recognized by the cut of his hair and the shape of his moccasins.

When they tired of their sport in beating poor Little Moccasin so cruelly, they dismounted and tied his hands behind his back.

Then they sat down upon the ground to have a smoke and to deliberate about the treatment of the captive.

During the very severe whipping, and while they were tying his hands, though it gave him great pain, Little Moccasin never uttered a groan. Indian-like, he had made up his mind to "die game," and not to give his enemies the satisfaction of gloating over his sufferings. This, as will be seen, saved his life.

The leader of the Crows, "Iron Bull," was in favor of burning the hated Uncapapa at a stake, then and there; but "Spotted Eagle," "Blind Owl," and "Hungry Wolf" called attention to the youth and bravery of the captive, who had endured the lashing without any sign of fear. Then the two other Crows took the same view. This decided poor Moccasin's fate; and he understood it all, although he did not speak the Crow language, for he was a great sign-talker, and had watched them very closely during their council.



Blind Owl, who seemed the most kind-hearted of the party, lifted the boy upon his pony, Blind Owl himself getting up in front, and they rode at full speed westward to their large encampment, where they arrived after sunset.

Little Moccasin was then relieved of his bonds, which had benumbed his hands during the long ride, and a large dish of boiled meat was given to him. This, in his famished condition, he relished very much. An old squaw, one of the wives of Blind Owl, and a Sioux captive, took pity on him, and gave him a warm place with plenty of blankets in her own tepee, where he enjoyed a good rest.

During his stay with the Crows, Little Moccasin was made to do the work which usually falls to the lot of the squaws; and which was imposed upon him as a punishment upon a brave enemy, designed to break his proud spirit. He was treated as a slave, made to haul wood and draw water, do the cooking, and clean game. Many of the Crow boys wanted to kill him, but his foster-mother, "Old Looking-Glass," protected him; and, besides, they feared that the soldiers of Fort Custer might hear of it, if he was killed, and punish them.

Many weeks thus passed, and the poor little captive grew more despondent and weaker in body every day. Often his foster-mother would talk to him in his own language, and tell him to be of good cheer; but he was terribly homesick and longed to get back to the mountains on the Rosebud, to tell the story of his daring and become the hero which he had started out to be.

One night, after everybody had gone to sleep in camp, and the fires had gone out, Old Looking-Glass, who had seemed to be soundly sleeping, approached his bed and gently touched his face. Looking up, he saw that she held a forefinger pressed against her lips, intimating that he must keep silence, and that she was beckoning him to go outside.

There she soon joined him; then, putting her arm around his neck, she hastened out of the camp and across the nearest hills.

When they had gone about five miles away from camp, they came upon a pretty little mouse-colored pony, which Old Looking-Glass had hidden there for Little Moccasin on the previous day.

She made him mount the pony, which she called "Blue Wing," and bade him fly toward the rising sun, where he would find white people who would protect and take care of him.

Old Looking-Glass then kissed Little Moccasin upon both cheeks and the forehead, while the tears ran down her wrinkled face; she also folded her hands upon her breast and looking up to the heavens, said a prayer, in which she asked the Great Spirit to protect and save the poor boy in his flight.

After she had whispered some indistinct words into the ear of Blue Wing (who seemed to understand her, for he nodded his head approvingly), she bade Little Moccasin be off, and advised him not to rest this side of the white man's settlement, as the Crows would soon discover his absence, and would follow him on their fleetest ponies.

"But Blue Wing will save you! He can outrun them all!"

These were her parting words, as he galloped away.

In a short time the sun rose over the nearest hill, and Little Moccasin then knew that he was going in the right direction. He felt very happy to be free again, although sorry to leave behind his kind-hearted foster-mother, Looking-Glass. He made up his mind that after a few years, when he had grown big and become a warrior, he would go and capture her from the hated Crows and take her to his own tepee.

He was so happy in this thought that he had not noticed how swiftly time passed, and that already the sun stood over his head; neither had he urged Blue Wing to run his swiftest; but that good little animal kept up a steady dog-trot, without, as yet, showing the least sign of being tired.

But what was the sudden noise which was heard behind him? Quickly he turned his head, and, to his horror, he beheld about fifty mounted Crows coming toward him at a run, and swinging in their hands guns, pistols, clubs, and knives!

His old enemy, Iron Bull, was in advance, and under his right arm he carried a long lance, with which he intended to spear Little Moccasin, as a cruel boy spears a bug with a pin.

Moccasin's heart stood still for a moment with fear; he knew that this time they would surely kill him if caught. He seemed to have lost all power of action.

Nearer and nearer came Iron Bull, shouting at the top of his voice.

But Blue Wing now seemed to understand the danger of Moccasin's situation; he pricked up his ears, snorted a few times, made several short jumps, to fully arouse Moccasin, who remained paralyzed with fear, and then, like a bird, fairly flew over the prairie, as if his little hoofs were not touching the ground.

Little Moccasin, too, was now awakened to his peril, and he patted and encouraged Blue Wing; while, from time to time, he looked back over his shoulder to watch the approach of Iron Bull.

Thus they went, on and on; over ditches and streams, rocks and hills, through gulches and valleys. Blue Wing was doing nobly, but the pace could not last forever.

Iron Bull was now only about five hundred yards behind and gaining on him.

Little Moccasin felt the cold sweat pouring down his face. He had no fire-arm, or he would have stopped to shoot at Iron Bull.

Blue Wing's whole body seemed to tremble beneath his young rider, as if the pony was making a last desperate effort, before giving up from exhaustion.

Unfortunately, Little Moccasin did not know how to pray, or he might have found some comfort and help thereby; but in those moments, when a terrible death was so near to him, he did the next best thing: he thought of his mother and his father, of his little sisters and brothers, and also of Looking-Glass, his kind old foster-mother.

Then he felt better and was imbued with fresh courage. He again looked back, gave one loud, defiant yell at Iron Bull, and then went out of sight over some high ground.

Ki-yi-yi-yi! There is the railroad station just in front, only about three hundred yards away. He sees white men around the buildings, who will protect him.

At this moment Blue Wing utters one deep groan, stumbles, and falls to the ground. Fortunately, though, Little Moccasin has received no hurt. He jumps up, and runs toward the station as fast as his weary legs can carry him.

At this very moment Iron Bull with several of his braves came in sight again, and, realizing the helpless condition of the boy, they all gave a shout of joy, thinking that in a few minutes they would capture and kill him. But their shouting had been heard by some of the white men, who at once concluded to protect the boy, if he deserved aid.

Little Moccasin and Iron Bull reached the door of the station-building at nearly the same moment; but the former had time enough to dart inside and hide under the table of the telegraph operator.

When Iron Bull and several other Crows rushed in to pull the boy from underneath the table, the operator quickly took from the table-drawer a revolver, and with it drove the murderous Crows from the premises.

Then the boy had to tell his story, and he was believed. All took pity upon his forlorn condition, and his brave flight made them his friends.

In the evening Blue Wing came up to where Little Moccasin was resting and awaiting the arrival of the next train, which was to take him back to his own home.

Little Moccasin threw his arms affectionately around Blue Wing's neck, vowing that they never would part again in life.

Then they both were put aboard a lightning express train, which look them to within a short distance of the old camp on the Rosebud.

When Little Moccasin arrived at his father's tepee, riding beautiful Blue Wing, now rested and frisky, the whole camp flocked around him; and when he told them of his great daring, of his capture and his escape, Running Antelope, the big warrior of the Uncapapas and the most noted orator of the tribe, proclaimed him a true hero, and then and there begged his pardon for having called him a "coffee-cooler." In the evening Little Moccasin was honored by a great feast and the name of "Rushing Lightning," Wakee-watakeepee, was bestowed upon him—and by that name he is known to this day.







WAUKEWA'S EAGLE

BY JAMES BUCKHAM

One day, when the Indian boy Waukewa was hunting along the mountain-side, he found a young eagle with a broken wing, lying at the base of a cliff. The bird had fallen from an aerie on a ledge high above, and being too young to fly, had fluttered down the cliff and injured itself so severely that it was likely to die. When Waukewa saw it he was about to drive one of his sharp arrows through its body, for the passion of the hunter was strong in him, and the eagle plunders many a fine fish from the Indian's drying-frame. But a gentler impulse came to him as he saw the young bird quivering with pain and fright at his feet, and he slowly unbent his bow, put the arrow in his quiver, and stooped over the panting eaglet. For fully a minute the wild eyes of the wounded bird and the eyes of the Indian boy, growing gentler and softer as he gazed, looked into one another. Then the struggling and panting of the young eagle ceased; the wild, frightened look passed out of its eyes, and it suffered Waukewa to pass his hand gently over its ruffled and draggled feathers. The fierce instinct to fight, to defend its threatened life, yielded to the charm of the tenderness and pity expressed in the boy's eyes; and from that moment Waukewa and the eagle were friends.

Waukewa went slowly home to his father's lodge, bearing the wounded eaglet in his arms. He carried it so gently that the broken wing gave no twinge of pain, and the bird lay perfectly still, never offering to strike with its sharp beak the hands that clasped it.

Warming some water over the fire at the lodge, Waukewa bathed the broken wing of the eagle and bound it up with soft strips of skin. Then he made a nest of ferns and grass inside the lodge, and laid the bird in it. The boy's mother looked on with shining eyes. Her heart was very tender. From girlhood she had loved all the creatures of the woods, and it pleased her to see some of her own gentle spirit waking in the boy.

When Waukewa's father returned from hunting, he would have caught up the young eagle and wrung its neck. But the boy pleaded with him so eagerly, stooping over the captive and defending it with his small hands, that the stern warrior laughed and called him his "little squaw-heart." "Keep it, then," he said, "and nurse it until it is well. But then you must let it go, for we will not raise up a thief in the lodges." So Waukewa promised that when the eagle's wing was healed and grown so that it could fly, he would carry it forth and give it its freedom.

It was a month—or, as the Indians say, a moon—before the young eagle's wing had fully mended and the bird was old enough and strong enough to fly. And in the meantime Waukewa cared for it and fed it daily, and the friendship between the boy and the bird grew very strong.



But at last the time came when the willing captive must be freed. So Waukewa carried it far away from the Indian lodges, where none of the young braves might see it hovering over and be tempted to shoot their arrows at it, and there he let it go. The young eagle rose toward the sky in great circles, rejoicing in its freedom and its strange, new power of flight. But when Waukewa began to move away from the spot, it came swooping down again; and all day long it followed him through the woods as he hunted. At dusk, when Waukewa shaped his course for the Indian lodges, the eagle would have accompanied him. But the boy suddenly slipped into a hollow tree and hid, and after a long time the eagle stopped sweeping about in search of him and flew slowly and sadly away.



Summer passed, and then winter; and spring came again, with its flowers and birds and swarming fish in the lakes and streams. Then it was that all the Indians, old and young, braves and squaws, pushed their light canoes out from shore and with spear and hook waged pleasant war against the salmon and the red-spotted trout. After winter's long imprisonment, it was such joy to toss in the sunshine and the warm wind and catch savory fish to take the place of dried meats and corn!

Above the great falls of the Apahoqui the salmon sported in the cool, swinging current, darting under the lee of the rocks and leaping full length in the clear spring air. Nowhere else were such salmon to be speared as those which lay among the riffles at the head of the Apahoqui rapids. But only the most daring braves ventured to seek them there, for the current was strong, and should a light canoe once pass the danger-point and get caught in the rush of the rapids, nothing could save it from going over the roaring falls.

Very early in the morning of a clear April day, just as the sun was rising splendidly over the mountains, Waukewa launched his canoe a half-mile above the rapids of the Apahoqui, and floated downward, spear in hand, among the salmon-riffles. He was the only one of the Indian lads who dared fish above the falls. But he had been there often, and never yet had his watchful eye and his strong paddle suffered the current to carry his canoe beyond the danger-point. This morning he was alone on the river, having risen long before daylight to be first at the sport.

The riffles were full of salmon, big, lusty fellows, who glided about the canoe on every side in an endless silver stream. Waukewa plunged his spear right and left, and tossed one glittering victim after another into the bark canoe. So absorbed in the sport was he that for once he did not notice when the head of the rapids was reached and the canoe began to glide more swiftly among the rocks. But suddenly he looked up, caught his paddle, and dipped it wildly in the swirling water. The canoe swung sidewise, shivered, held its own against the torrent, and then slowly, inch by inch, began to creep upstream toward the shore. But suddenly there was a loud, cruel snap, and the paddle parted in the boy's hands, broken just above the blade! Waukewa gave a cry of despairing agony. Then he bent to the gunwale of his canoe and with the shattered blade fought desperately against the current. But it was useless. The racing torrent swept him downward; the hungry falls roared tauntingly in his ears.

Then the Indian boy knelt calmly upright in the canoe, facing the mist of the falls, and folded his arms. His young face was stern and lofty. He had lived like a brave hitherto—now he would die like one.

Faster and faster sped the doomed canoe toward the great cataract. The black rocks glided away on either side like phantoms. The roar of the terrible waters became like thunder in the boy's ears. But still he gazed calmly and sternly ahead, facing his fate as a brave Indian should. At last he began to chant the death-song, which he had learned from the older braves. In a few moments all would be over. But he would come before the Great Spirit with a fearless hymn upon his lips.

Suddenly a shadow fell across the canoe. Waukewa lifted his eyes and saw a great eagle hovering over, with dangling legs, and a spread of wings that blotted out the sun. Once more the eyes of the Indian boy and the eagle met; and now it was the eagle who was master!

With a glad cry the Indian boy stood up in his canoe, and the eagle hovered lower. Now the canoe tossed up on that great swelling wave that climbs to the cataract's edge, and the boy lifted his hands and caught the legs of the eagle. The next moment he looked down into the awful gulf of waters from its very verge. The canoe was snatched from beneath him and plunged down the black wall of the cataract; but he and the struggling eagle were floating outward and downward through the cloud of mist. The cataract roared terribly, like a wild beast robbed of its prey. The spray beat and blinded, the air rushed upward as they fell. But the eagle struggled on with his burden. He fought his way out of the mist and the flying spray. His great wings threshed the air with a whistling sound. Down, down they sank, the boy and the eagle, but ever farther from the precipice of water and the boiling whirlpool below. At length, with a fluttering plunge, the eagle dropped on a sand-bar below the whirlpool, and he and the Indian boy lay there a minute, breathless and exhausted. Then the eagle slowly lifted himself, took the air under his free wings, and soared away, while the Indian boy knelt on the sand, with shining eyes following the great bird till he faded into the gray of the cliffs.





A HURON CINDERELLA

BY HOWARD ANGUS KENNEDY

Many years ago there was an Indian chief who had three daughters; and they lived in a lodge by the side of the Ottawa River—not in a wigwam, mind you, but a good old Huron lodge, like a tunnel, made of two rows of young trees bent into arches and tied together at the top, with walls of birch-bark. Oh! it was an honorable old lodge, with more cracks in the birch-bark than you could count, all patched and smeared with pitch.

The chief had three sons too, but they were killed in a great fight with the Iroquois. When the brave Hurons used up all their arrows they threw down their bows and rushed on the Iroquois with their tomahawks. They screamed and howled like eagles and wolves, and the Iroquois were so frightened that they wanted to run away, but their own magic-man threw a spell upon them, so that they couldn't turn round or run, and they had to stand and fight. The Iroquois were cousins of the Hurons, and came of a brave stock; and as the Hurons were few compared to the Iroquois, few as the thumbs compared to the fingers, the Hurons were beaten, and only twenty men of the tribe escaped down the river, and none of the women except the chief's three daughters.

Now the two eldest daughters were very proud, and loved to make a fine show before the young men of the tribe. One day a brave young man came to the lodge and asked the chief to give him a daughter for a wife.

The chief said, "It is not right for me to give my daughter to any but a chief's son." However, he called his eldest daughter and said to her, "This young man wants you for a wife."

The eldest daughter thought in her mind: "I am very handsome, and one day a chief's son will come and ask for me; but my clothes are old and common. I will deceive this young man." So she said to him: "If you want me for your wife, get me a big piece of the fine red cloth that the white men bring to the fort far down the river."

The young man was brave, as we have said, and he took his birch-bark canoe and paddled down the river day after day for seven days, only stopping to paddle up the creeks where the beavers build their dams; and when he stopped at the foot of the great rapids, where the white men lay behind stone walls in fear of the Iroquois, his canoe was deep and heavy with the skins of the beavers. The white men were at war with the Indians, and, though he was no Iroquois, his heart grew cold in his breast. But he did not tremble; he marched in at the watergate, and the white men were glad to see his beaver skins, and gave him much red cloth for them; so his heart grew warm again, and he paddled up the river with his riches. Twelve days he paddled, for the current was strong against him; but at last he stood outside the old lodge, and called the chief's eldest daughter to come out and be his wife. When she saw how red was his load, she was glad and sorry—glad because of the cloth, and sorry because of the man.

"But where are the beads?" said she.

"You asked me for no beads," said he.

"Fool!" said she. "Was it ever heard that a chief's daughter married in clothing of plain red cloth? If you want me for your wife, bring me a double handful of the glass beads that the Frenchmen bring from over the sea—red and white and blue and yellow beads!"

So the brave paddled off in his canoe down the river. When he came to the beavers' creeks he found the dams and the lodges; but the beavers were gone. He followed them up the creeks till the water got so shallow that the rocks tore holes in his canoe, and he had to stop and strip fresh birch-bark to mend the holes; but at last he found where the beavers were building their new dams; and he loaded his canoe with their skins, and paddled away and shot over the rapids, and came to the white man's fort. The white men passed their hands over the skins and felt that they were good, and gave him a double handful of beads. Then he paddled up the river, paddling fast and hard, so that when he stood before the old chief's lodge he was very thin.

The eldest daughter came out when he called, and said: "It is a shame for such an ugly man to have a chief's daughter for his wife. You are not a man; you are only the bones of a man, like the poles of the lodge when the bark is stripped away. Come back when you are fat."

Then he went away to his lodge, and ate and slept and ate and slept till he was fat, and he made his face beautiful with red clay and went and called to the chief's daughter to come and marry him. But she called out to him, saying:

"A chief's daughter must have time to embroider her clothes. Come back when I have made my cloth beautiful with a strip of beadwork a hand's-breadth wide from end to end of the cloth."



But she was very lazy as well as proud, and she took the cloth to her youngest sister, and said: "Embroider a beautiful strip, a hand's-breadth wide, from end to end of the cloth."

Now the chief's youngest daughter was very beautiful; so her sisters were jealous and made her live in the dark corner at the back of the lodge, where no man could see her; but her eyes were very bright, and by the light of her eyes she arranged the beads and sewed them on so that the pattern was like the flowers of the earth and the stars of heaven, it was so beautiful. But when the youngest daughter had fallen asleep at night her eldest sister came softly and took away the cloth and picked off the beads.

In the morning she went to her youngest sister and said, "Show me the work you did yesterday."

And the youngest sister cried, and said, "Truly I worked as well as I could, but some evil one has picked out the beads."

Then her sister scolded her, and pricked her with the needle, and said, "You are lazy! Embroider this cloth, and do it beautifully, or I shall beat you!"

This she did day after day, and whenever the young man came to see if she was dressed for the wedding she showed him the cloth, and it was not finished.

Now there was another brave young man in that village, and he came and asked the chief for his second daughter.

The second daughter was as proud as the first, and said to herself, "One day a great chief's son will come, and I will marry him." But she said to the young man, "If you want me for your wife, you must build me a new lodge, and cover the door of it with a curtain of beaver-skins."

The young man smiled in his heart, for he said to himself, "This is easy; this is child's play." So he built a new lodge, and hung a curtain of beaver-skins over the door.

But when the chief's daughter saw the curtain, she said, "I should be ashamed to live behind a curtain of plain beaver-skins like that! Go and hunt for porcupines, that the curtain may be embroidered with their quills."

So he took his bow and his arrows and went away through the woods to hunt. Twelve days he marched, till he came to the porcupines' country. When the porcupines saw him coming; they ran to meet him, crying out, "Don't kill us! We will give you all the quills that you want." And while he stood doubting, the porcupines turned round, and shot their prickly quills out at him so that they stuck in his body. And the porcupines ran away into hiding before he could shoot.

Then the young man, because he had been gone so long already, did not chase the porcupines, but left the quills sticking in his body and went back to the village, saying to himself, "She will see how brave I am, that I care nothing for the pain of the porcupine quills."

But when the chief's daughter saw him she only laughed and said:

"You cannot deceive me! It was never heard that a chief's daughter married a man who was not brave. If you were brave, you would have twenty Iroquois scalps hanging from your belt. It is easy to hunt porcupines; go and hunt the Iroquois, that I may embroider the curtain black and white with the porcupine-quills and the Iroquois hair."

Then the young man's heart grew cold; but he took his bow and arrows and went through the woods; and when he came near the Iroquois town he lay down on his face and slipped through the bushes like a snake. When an Iroquois came to hunt in the woods, he shot the Iroquois and took his scalp; and this he did till he had twenty scalps on his belt.

Now all the time that he lay in the bushes by the Iroquois town he ate nothing but wild strawberries, for the blueberries were not yet ripe; so when he came to his own village and called to the chief's second daughter, she said:

"You are an ill-looking man for a chief's daughter to marry. You are like a porcupine-quill yourself. Nevertheless, I am not like my sister, and I will marry you as soon as the curtain is embroidered."

Then she took the curtain of beaver-skin and gave it to her youngest sister, and said:

"Embroider this curtain with quills, black and white, and criss-cross, so that it shall be more beautiful than the red cloth and the beadwork."

So the youngest sister, when she had done her day's work on the cloth, and was tired and ready to sleep, took the quills and the hair and began to embroider the curtain, black and white, in beautiful patterns like the boughs of the trees against the sky, till she could work no longer, and fell asleep with her chin on her breast.

Then her second sister came with her mischievous fingers and picked out all the embroidery of quills and hair, and in the morning came and shook her and waked her, and said, "You are lazy! you are lazy! Embroider this curtain!"

In this way the youngest sister's task was doubled, and she grew thin for want of sleep; yet she was so beautiful, and her eyes shone so brightly, that her sisters hated her more and more, for they said to themselves, "If a great chief's son comes this way, he will see her eyes shining even in the dark at the back of the lodge."

One day, when the chief looked out of his door, he saw a new lodge standing in the middle of the village, covered with buckskin, and painted round with pictures of wonderful beasts that had never been seen in that country before. There was a fire in front of the lodge, and the haunch of a deer was cooking on the fire. When the chief went and stood and looked in at the door, the lodge was empty, and he said, "Whose can this lodge be?"

Then a voice close by him said, "It is the lodge of a chief who is greater than any chief of the Hurons or any chief of the Iroquois."

"Where is he?" asked the old chief.

"I am sitting beside my fire," said the voice; "but you cannot see me, for your eyes are turned inward. No one can see me but the maiden I have come to marry."

"There are no maidens here," said the old chief, "except my daughters."

Then he went back to his lodge, where his two elder daughters were idling in the sun, and told them:

"There is a great chief come to seek a wife in my tribe. His magic is so strong that no one can see him except the maiden whom he chooses to marry."

Then the eldest daughter got up, snatched the red cloth out of her youngest sister's hand, wrapped it round her, smeared red clay over her face, and ran to the new lodge and called to the great chief to come and look at her.

"I am looking at you now," said a voice close beside her; "and you are very ugly; you have been dipping your face in the mud. And you are very lazy, for your embroidery is not finished."

"Great chief," said she, "I will wash the clay from my face, and I will go and finish the embroidery and make a robe fit for a maiden who is to marry the great chief."

Then the voice said, "How can you marry a man you cannot see?"

"Oh," she said, "I can see you as plainly as the lodge and the fire. I can see you quite plainly, sitting beside the fire."

"Then tell me what I am like," said he.

"You are the handsomest of men," she said, "straight of back and brown of skin."

"Go home," said the voice, "and learn to speak truth."

When she came back to the lodge, she flung the red cloth down on the ground without speaking.

Then the old chief said to his second daughter, "Your sister has failed; it must be you that the great chief will marry."

So the second daughter picked up the beaver curtain and flung it round her, and ran to the empty lodge; and, being crafty, she cried aloud as she came near, "Oh! What a handsome chief you are!"

"How do you know I am handsome?" said the voice. "Tell me what clothes I wear."

So she guessed in her mind, and, looking on the painted lodge, she said, "A robe of buckskin, with wonderful animals painted on it."

"Go home," said the voice, "and learn to speak truth."

Then she slunk away home, and squatted on the ground before the lodge, with her chin on her breast.

Now, when the youngest daughter saw that both her sisters had failed, she said to herself, "They tell me I am very thin and ugly, but I will go and try if I can see this great chief." So she pushed aside a corner of the birch-bark, slipped out at the back of the lodge, and stole away to the painted lodge; and there, sitting by his fire on the ground, she saw a wonderful great chief, with skin as white as midwinter snow, dressed in a long robe of red and blue and green and yellow stripes.

He smiled on her as she stood humbly before him, and said, "Tell me now, chief's daughter, what I am like, and what I wear!"

And she said, "Your face is like a cloud in the north when the sun shines bright from the south; and your robe is like the arch in the sky when the sun shines on the rain."

Then he stood up and took her for his wife, and carried her away to live in his own country.



THE FIRE BRINGER[S]

BY MARY AUSTIN

They ranged together by wood and open swale, the boy who was to be called Fire Bringer, and the keen, gray dog of the wilderness, and saw the tribesmen catching fish in the creeks with their hands, and the women digging roots with sharp stones. This they did in Summer, and fared well; but when Winter came they ran nakedly in the snow, or huddled in caves of the rocks, and were very miserable. When the boy saw this he was very unhappy, and brooded over it until the Coyote noticed it.

"It is because my people suffer and have no way to escape the cold," said the boy.

"I do not feel it," said the Coyote.

"That is because of your coat of good fur, which my people have not, except they take it in the chase, and it is hard to come by."

"Let them run about, then," said the counselor, "and keep warm."

"They run till they are weary," said the boy; "and there are the young children and the very old. Is there no way for them?"

"Come," said the Coyote, "let us go to the hunt."

"I will hunt no more," the boy answered him, "until I have found a way to save my people from the cold. Help me, O counselor!"

But the Coyote had run away. After a time he came back and found the boy still troubled in his mind.

"There is a way, O Man Friend," said the Coyote, "and you and I must take it together, but it is very hard."

"I will not fail of my part," said the boy.

"We will need a hundred men and women, strong, and swift runners."

"I will find them," the boy insisted, "only tell me."

"We must go," said the Coyote, "to the Burning Mountain by the Big Water and bring fire to our people."

Said the boy: "What is fire?"

Then the Coyote considered a long time how he should tell the boy what fire is. "It is," said he, "red like a flower, yet it is no flower; neither is it a beast, though it runs in the grass and rages in the wood and devours all. It is very fierce and hurtful, and stays not for asking; yet if it is kept among stones and fed with small sticks, it will serve the people well and keep them warm."

"How is it to be come at?"

"It has its lair in the Burning Mountain; and the Fire Spirits guard it night and day. It is a hundred days' journey from this place, and because of the jealousy of the Fire Spirits no man dare go near it. But I, because all beasts are known to fear it much, may approach it without hurt, and, it may be, bring you a brand from the burning. Then you must have strong runners for every one of the hundred days to bring it safely home."

"I will go and get them," said the boy; but it was not so easily done as said. Many there were who were slothful, and many were afraid; but the most disbelieved it wholly.

"For," they said, "how should this boy tell us of a thing of which we have never heard!" But at last the boy and their own misery persuaded them.

The Coyote advised them how the march should begin. The boy and the counselor went foremost; next to them the swiftest runners, with the others following in the order of their strength, and speed. They left the place of their home and went over the high mountains where great jagged peaks stand up above the snow, and down the way the streams led through a long stretch of giant wood where the somber shade and the sound of the wind in the branches made them afraid. At nightfall, where they rested, one stayed in that place, and the next night another dropped behind; and so it was at the end of each day's journey. They crossed a great plain where waters of mirage rolled over a cracked and parching earth, and the rim of the world was hidden in a bluish mist. So they came at last to another range of hills, not so high, but tumbled thickly together; and beyond these, at the end of the hundred days, to the Big Water, quaking along the sand at the foot of the Burning Mountain.

It stood up in a high and peaked cone, and the smoke of its burning rolled out and broke along the sky. By night the glare of it reddened the waves far out on the Big Water, when the Fire Spirits began their dance.

Then said the counselor to the boy who was soon to be called the Fire Bringer: "Do you stay here until I bring you a brand from the burning; be ready and right for running, and lose no time, for I shall be far spent when I come again, and the Fire Spirits will pursue me."



Then he went up the mountain, and the Fire Spirits, when they saw him come, were laughing and very merry, for his appearance was much against him. Lean he was, and his coat much the worse for the long way he had come. Slinking he looked, inconsiderable, scurvy, and mean, as he has always looked, and it served him as well then as it serves him now. So the Fire Spirits only laughed, and paid him no further heed.

Along in the night, when they came out to begin their dance about the mountain, the Coyote stole the fire and began to run away with it down the slope of the Burning Mountain. When the Fire Spirits saw what he had done, they streamed out after him red and angry in pursuit, with a sound like a swarm of bees.

The boy saw them come, and stood up in his place clean-limbed and taut for running. He saw the sparks of the brand stream back along the Coyote's flanks as he carried it in his mouth, and stretched forward on the trail, bright against the dark bulk of the mountain like a falling star. He heard the singing sound of the Fire Spirits behind, and the labored breath of the counselor nearing through the dark. Then the good beast panted down beside him, and the brand dropped from his jaws.

The boy caught it up, standing bent for the running as a bow to speeding the arrow. Out he shot on the homeward path, and the Fire Spirits snapped and sung behind him. Fast as they pursued he fled faster, until he saw the next runner stand up in his place to receive the brand.

So it passed from hand to hand, and the Fire Spirits tore after it through the scrub until they came to the mountains of the snows. These they could not pass; and the dark, sleek runners with the backward-streaming brand bore it forward, shining star-like in the night, glowing red through sultry noons, violet pale in twilight glooms, until they came in safety to their own land. Here they kept it among stones, and fed it with small sticks, as the Coyote had advised, until it warmed them and cooked their food.

As for the boy by whom fire came to the tribes, he was called the Fire Bringer while he lived; and after that, since there was no other with so good a right to the name, it fell to the Coyote; and this is the sign that the tale is true, for all along his lean flanks the fur is singed and yellow as it was by the flames that blew backward from the brand when he brought it down from the Burning Mountain.

As for the fire, that went on broadening and brightening, and giving out a cheery sound until it broadened into the light of day.

[S] From "The Basket Woman," by Mary Austin; used by permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin Company.



SCAR FACE

An Indian Tale

The mother of Scar Face the Youth was Feather Woman, who had fallen in love with Morning Star, and vowed that she would marry none other. To this she held true, despite the laughter and jibes of her friends. And one morning when she walked in the fields very, very early, that she might see Morning Star before the sun hid his brightness, she met a handsome youth who told her that he was Morning Star, and that he had come to earth for a day, impelled by her love.

So Feather Woman went back to Skyland with Morning Star, and by-and-by a little son was born to her. At first she had been very happy in Skyland, but there were times when she was sad because of the camp of the Blackfeet, which she had left.

Now, in Skyland Feather Woman often dug in the garden, and she had been cautioned not to uproot the turnip, lest evil befall. After she was given this charge she looked long at the turnip and wondered what evil might come from its uprooting. At last she took her flint and dug around the least bit, not wanting to uproot it; but hardly had she loosened the turnip when it came out of the ground, and she looked down through the hole which it had made in the sky and saw the camp of the Blackfeet spread before her.

Suddenly she began to weep for her friends; and when her father-in-law, the Sun, saw her weeping, he said: "You have dug up the turnip and have looked down at the camp of the Blackfeet. Now must you return thither."

So the star-weavers made a net, and Feather Woman and her child, the son of Morning Star, were let down into the camp of the Blackfeet.

At first she was very happy, but soon she began to grieve for Morning Star, and at last she died of sorrow because she could not return to Skyland. Morning Star could not come to earth, for it had been given to him to come but that one time when impelled by her love.

And so the little son of Feather Woman and Morning Star was left all alone. And across his face was a great scar, which had been made there when he had been let down from Skyland in the net woven by the star-weavers. Because of this scar he was named, and because of it he was very ugly, so that the children of the tribe were afraid of him, and the older folks hated him; they said that evil must be in his heart that he should have so ugly a face.

But there was no evil in the heart of Scar Face, and he hunted and fished alone, and became a great hunter, bringing home much meat to the tribe.

But he was not happy, because of the unfriendliness of the tribe. The Chief had a very beautiful daughter, and all the young men of the tribe loved her; and Scar Face, too, loved her, and longed to marry her.

So at last he went to her and told her of his love, and asked her to marry him; and she, thinking to jest, said: "I will marry you when you take that ugly scar from your face."

At this Scar Face was more sad than he had been before, for he did not see how it was possible to get rid of the scar. But he loved the Chief's daughter very much, and at last he went to the old Medicine Man of the tribe to ask him what he could do to get rid of the scar.

"You can do nothing," replied the Medicine Man. "The scar was put there by the Sun, and only the Sun can take it away."

"Then I will go to the Sun and ask him to take away the scar," said Scar Face.

"If you will do that," replied the Medicine Man, "you must journey far to the west, where the land ends and where the Big Water is. And when you come to the Big Water at sunset you will see a long trail, marked by a golden light, which leads to the home of the Sun. Follow the trail."

So Scar Face set out and went to where the land ends and the Big Water is. And he sat by the Big Water until sunset, and he saw the trail as the Medicine Man had said. Then he followed the trail, and came at last to Skyland, where he was greeted by Morning Star, who knew him at once for his son.

Morning Star was most glad at the coming of his son, and they hunted and fished together. And one day when they were hunting they came to a deep cavern in which was a dreadful serpent, which attacked Morning Star and would have killed him but that Scar Face quickly cut off its head.

Then the Sun was grateful to Scar Face for saving the life of his son, Morning Star, and he removed the scar from the face of his grandson, which he had put there in anger at the child's mother.

Then Scar Face went back to the tribe of the Blackfeet, and he was the most handsome of all the youths; and the daughter of the Chief loved him, and he had no difficulty in persuading her to marry him. Because he loved his father, Morning Star, he took her with him and set out again for the place where the land ends and the Big Water begins; and together they followed the trail marked by golden light until they came at last to Skyland. There they lived and were happy; and Morning Star shone with especial brightness on the camp of the Blackfeet for their sake.



WHY THE BABY SAYS "GOO"

RETOLD BY EHRMA G. FILER

On a sloping highland near the snow-capped mountains of the North was an Indian village. The Chief of the village was a very brave man, and he had done many wonderful things.

These were the days of magic and witchery. The Ice Giants had attempted to raid the land; some wicked Witches had tried to cast an evil spell over the people; and once a neighboring colony of Dwarfs had tried to invade the village.

But the brave Chief had fought and conquered all these forces of evil and magic. He was so successful and so good that the people loved him very much. They thought he could do anything.

Then before long the Chief himself began to be proud and vain. He had conquered everyone; so he thought he was the greatest warrior in the world.

One day he boastfully said: "I can conquer anything or any person on this earth."

Now, a certain Wise Old Woman lived in this village. She knew one whom the Chief could not conquer. She decided it was best for the Chief to know this, for he was getting too vain. So one day she went to the Chief and told him.

"Granny, who is this marvelous person?" asked the Chief, half angrily.

"We call him Wasis," she solemnly answered.

"Show him to me," said the Chief. "I will prove that I can conquer him."

The old grandmother led the way to her own wigwam. A great crowd followed to see what would happen.

"There he is," said the Wise Old Woman; and she pointed to a dear little Indian baby, who sat, round-eyed and solemn, sucking a piece of sugar.

The Chief was astonished. He could not imagine what the old woman meant, for he was sure he could make a little baby obey him. This Chief had no wife, and knew nothing about babies. He stepped up closer to the baby, and looking seriously at him said:

"Baby, come here!"

Little Wasis merely smiled back at him and gurgled, "Goo, Goo," in true baby fashion.

The Chief felt very queer. No one had ever answered him so before. Then he thought, perhaps the baby did not understand; so he stepped nearer and said kindly: "Baby, come here!"

"Goo, Goo!" answered baby, and waved his little dimpled hand.

This was an open insult, the Chief felt; so he called out loudly: "Baby, come here at once!"

This frightened little Wasis, and he opened his little mouth and began to cry. The Chief had never before heard such a noise. He drew back, and looked helplessly around.

"You see, little Wasis shouts back war-cries," said the Wise Old Woman.

This angered the Chief, and he said: "I will overcome him with my magic power."

Then he began to mutter queer songs, and to dance around the baby.

This pleased little Wasis, and he smiled and watched the Chief, never moving to go to him. He just sat and sucked his sugar.

At last the Chief was tired out. His red paint was streaked with sweat; his feathers were falling, and his legs ached. He sat down and looked at the old woman.

"Did I not say that baby is mightier than you?" said she. "No one is mightier than he. A baby rules the wigwam, and everyone obeys him."

"It is truly so," said the Chief, and went outside.

The last sound he heard as he walked away was the "Goo, Goo" of little Wasis as he crowed in victory. It was his war-cry. All babies mean just that when they gurgle so at you.

THE END