Yan carried his note-book—he used it more and more, also his sketching materials. On the road he gathered a handful of flowers and herbs. His reception by the old woman was very different this time.

"Come in, come in, God bless ye, an' hoo air ye, an' how is yer father an' mother—come in an' set down, an' how is that spalpeen, Sam Raften?"

"Sam's all right now," said Yan with a blush.

"All right! Av coorse he's all right. I knowed I'd fix him all right, an' he knowed it, an' his Ma knowed it when she let him come. Did she say onything about it?"

"No, Granny, not a word."

"The dhirty hussy! Saved the boy's life in sphite of their robbin' me an' she ain't human enough to say 'thank ye'—the dhirty hussy! May God forgive her as I do," said the old woman with evident and implacable enmity.

"Fwhat hev ye got thayer? Hivin be praised, they can't kill them all off. They kin cut down the trees, but the flowers comes ivery year, me little beauties—me little beauties!" Yan spread them out. She picked up an Arum and went on. "Now, that's Sorry-plant, only some calls it Injun Turnip, an' I hear the childer call it Jack-in-the-Pulpit. Don't ye never put the root o' that near yer tongue. It'll sure burn ye like fire. First thing whin they gits howld av a greeny the bhise throis to make him boite that same. Shure he niver does it twicet. The Injuns b'ile the pizen out o' the root an' ates it; shure it's better'n starvin'."

Golden Seal (Hydrastis canadensis), the plant she had used for Sam's knee, was duly recognized and praised, its wonderful golden root, "the best goold iver came out av the ground," was described with its impression of the seal of the Wise King.

"Thim's Mandrakes, an' they're moighty late, an' ye shure got thim in the woods. Some calls it May Apples, an' more calls it Kingroot. The Injuns use it fur their bowels, an' it has cured many a horse of pole evil that I seen meself.

"An' Blue Cohosh, only I call that Spazzum-root. Thayer ain't nothin' like it fur spazzums—took like tay; only fur that the Injun women wouldn't live in all their thrubles, but that's something that don't consarn ye. Luk now, how the laves is all spread out like wan wid spazzums. Glory be to the Saints and the Blessed Virgin, everything is done fur us on airth an' plain marked, if we'd only take the thruble to luk.

"Now luk at thot," said she, clawing over the bundle and picking out a yellow Cypripedium, "that's Moccasin-plant wid the Injuns, but mercy on 'em fur bloind, miserable haythens. They don't know nothin' an' don't want to larn it. That's Umbil, or Sterrick-root. It's powerful good fur sterricks. Luk at it! See the face av a woman in sterricks wid her hayer flyin' an' her jaw a-droppin'. I moind the toime Larry's little gurrl didn't want to go to her 'place' an' hed sterricks. They jest sent fur me an' I brung along a Sterrick-root. First, I sez, sez I, 'Get me some b'ilin' wather,' an' I made tay an' give it to her b'ilin' hot. As share as Oi'm a livin' corpse, the very first spoonful fetched her all right. Oh, but it's God's own gift, an' it's be His blessin' we know how to use it. An' it don't do to just go an' dig it when ye want it. It has to be grubbed when the flower ain't thayer. Ye see, the strength ain't in both places to oncet. It's ayther in the flower or in the root, so when the flower is thayer the root's no more good than an ould straw. Ye hes to Hunt fur it in spring or in fall, just when the divil himself wouldn't know whayer to find it.

"An' fwhat hev ye thayer? Good land! if it ain't Skunk's Cabbage! Ye sure come up by the Bend. That's the on'y place whayer that grows."

"Yes," replied Yan; "that's just where I got it. But hold on, Granny, I want to sketch all those and note down their names and what you say about them."

"Shure, you'd hev a big book when I wuz through," said the old woman with pride, as she lit her pipe, striking the match on what would have been the leg of her pants had she been a man.

"An' shure ye don't need to write down what they're good fur, fur the good Lord done that Himself long ago. Luk here, now. That's Cohosh, fur spazzums, an' luks like it; that's Moccasin, fur Highsterricks, an' luks like it; wall, thar's Skunk-root fur both, an' don't it luk like the two o' thim thigither?"

Yan feebly agreed, but had much difficulty in seeing what the plant had in common with the others.

"An' luk here! Thayer ye got Lowbelier, that some calls Injun tobaccer. Ye found this by the crick, an' it's a little airly—ahead o' toime. That's the shtuff to make ye throw up when ye want to. Luk, ain't that lafe the livin' shape of a shtummick?

"Thayer's the Highbelier; it's a high hairb, an' it's moighty foine fur the bowels when ye drink the dry root.

"Spicewood" [Spicebush, Lindera benzoin], "or Fayverbush, them twigs is great fur tay—that cures shakes and fayver. Shure an' it shakes ivery toime the wind blows.

"That's Clayvers," she said, picking up a Galium. "Now fwhat wud ye think that wuz fur to cure?"

"I don't know. What is it?"

"Luk now, an' see how it's wrote in it plain as prent—yes, an' a sight plainer, fur I can read them an' I can't read a wurrud in a book. Now fwhat is that loike?" said she, holding up the double seed-pod.

"A brain and spinal column," said Yan.

"Och, choild, I hev better eyes than ye. Shure them's two kidneys, an' that's fwhat Clayver tay will cure better'n all the docthers in the wurruld, an' ye hev to know just how. Ye see, kidney thruble is a koind o' fayver; it's hatin', so ye make yer Clayver tay in cold wather; if ye make it o' warrum wather it just makes ye wuss an' acts loike didly pizen. Thayer's Sweatplant, or Boneset" [Eupatorium perfoliatum], "that's the thing to sweat ye. Wanst Oi sane a feller jest dyin' o' dry hoide, wuz all hoidebound, an' the docthers throid an' throid an' couldn't help wan bit, till I guv his mother some Boneset leaves to make tay, an' he sweat buckets before he'd more'n smelt av it, an' the docthers thought they done it theirsilves!" and she cackled gleefully.

"Thayer's Goldthread fur cankermouth, an' Pipsissewa that cures fayver an' rheumatiz, too. It always grows where folks gits them disayses. Luk at the flower just blotched red an' white loike fayver blotches—an' Spearmint, that saves ye if ya pizen yerself with Spaszum-root, an' shure it grows right next it in the woods!

"Thayer's Wormseed fur wurrums—see the 'ittle wurrum on the leaves" [Chenopodium] "an' that thayer is Pleurisy root, an' thayer! well, thayer's the foinest hairb that iver God made to grow—that's Cure all. Some things cures wan thing and some cures another, but when ye don't know just what to take, ye make tay o' that root an' ye can't go wrong. It was an Injun larned me that. The poor miserable baste of a haythen hed some larnin', an' the minit he showed me I knowed it was so, fur ivery lafe wuz three in wan an' wan in three, an' had the sign o' the blessed crass in the middle as plain as that biler settin' on the stove."

Thus she chattered away, smoking her short pipe, expectorating on the top of the hot stove, but with true feminine delicacy she was careful each time to wipe her mouth on the back of her skinny arm.

"An' that's what's called Catnip; sure Oi moind well the day Oi furst larned about that. It warn't a Injun nor a docther nor a man at all, at all, that larned me that. It was that ould black Cat, an' may the saints stand bechuxt me an' his grane eyes! Bejabers, sometimes he scares me wid his knowin' ways, but I hev nothin' agin him except that he kills the wee burruds. He koind o' measled all wan winter an' lay around the stove. Whiniver the dooer was open he'd go an' luk out an' then come back an' meow an' wheen an' lay down—an' so he kep' on, gittin' waker an' worser, till the snow wuz gone an' grass come up, an' still he'd go a-lukin' toward the ayst, especially nights. Then thayer come up a plant I had never sane, right thayer, an' he'd luk at it an' luk at it loike he wanted it but didn't dar to. Thar was some foine trays out thayer in thim days afore the ould baste cut thim down, an' wan av thim hed a big limb, so—an' another so—an' when the moon come up full at jest the right time the shaddy made the sign av the crass an' loighted on me dooer, an' after it was past it didn't make no crass. Well, bejabers, the full moon come up at last an' she made the sign of the shaddy crass, an' the ould Cat goes out an' watches an' watches loike he wanted to an' didn't dar to, till that crass drapped fayer onto the hairbs, an' Tom he jumped then an' ate an' ate, an' from that day he was a well Cat; an' that's how Oi larned Catnip, an' it set me moind aisy, too, fur no Cat that's possesst 'll iver ate inunder the shaddy av the crass."

Yan was scribbling away, but had given up any attempt to make sketches or even notes beyond the names of the plants.

"Shure, choild, put them papers wid the names on the hairbs an' save them; that wuz fwhat Docther Carmartin done whin Oi was larnin' him. Thayer, now, that's it," she added, as Yan took the hint and began slipping on each stalk a paper label with its name.

"That's a curious broom," said Yan, as his eye fell on the symbol of order and cleanliness, making strange reflections on itself.

"Yes; sure, that's a Baitche broom. Larry makes 'em."

"Larry?"

"Yes, me bhoy." [Larry was nearly sixty.] "He makes thim of Blue Baitche."

"How?" asked Yan, picking it up and examining it with intense interest.

"Whoi, shure, by whittlin'. Larry's a howly terror to whittle, an' he gets a Blue Baitche sapling 'bout three inches thick an' starts a-whittlin" long slivers, but laves them on the sthick at wan end till thayer all round loike that."

"What, like a fire-lighter?"

"Yis, yis, that's it, only bigger, an Blue Baitche is terrible tough. Then whin he has the sthick down to 'bout an inch thick, he ties all the slivers the wrong way wid a sthrand o' Litherwood, an' thrims down the han'el to suit, an' evens up the ind av the broom wid the axe an' lets it dhry out, an' thayer yer is. Better broom was niver made, an' there niver wus ony other in th' famb'ly till he married that Kitty Connor, the lowest av the low, an' it's meself was all agin her, wid her proide an' her dirthy sthuck-up ways' nothin' but boughten things wuz good enough fur her, her that niver had a dacint male till she thrapped moi Larry. Yis, low be it sphoken, but 'thrapped' 's the wurrud," said the old woman, raising her voice to give emphasis that told a lurid tale.

At this moment the door opened and in came Biddy, and as she was the daughter of the unspeakable Kitty the conversation turned.

"An' sure it's glad to see ye I am, an' when are ye comin' down to reside at our place?" was her greeting to Yan, and while they talked Granny took advantage of the chance to take a long pull at a bottle that looked and smelled like Lung-balm.

"Moi, Biddy, yer airly," said Granny.

"Shure, an' now it was late whin I left home, an' the schulmaster says it's always so walking from ayst to west."

"An' shure it's glad Oi am to say ye, fur Yan will shtop an ate wid us. It ain't duck an' grane pase, but, thank God, we hev enough an' a hearty welcome wid ivery boite. Ye say, Biddy makes me dinner ivery foine day an' Oi get a boite an' a sup for meself other toimes, an' slapes be me lone furby me Dog an' Cat an' the apples, which thayer ain't but a handful left, but fwhat thar is is yourn. Help yerself, choild, an' ate hearty," and she turned down the gray-looking bedclothes to show the last half-dozen of the same rosy apples.

"Aint you afraid to sleep here alone nights, Granny?"

"Shure fwhat hev Oi to fayre? Thayer niver wuz robbers come but wanst, an' shure I got theyer last cint aff av them. They come one night an' broke in, an' settin' up, Oi sez, 'Now fwhat are yez lukin' fur?'

"'Money,' sez they, fur thayer was talk all round thin that Oi had sold me cow fur $25.

"'Sure, thin, Oi'll get up an' help ye,' sez Oi, fur divil a cint hev Oi been able to set me eyes on sense apple harvest.'"

'"We want $25, or we'll kill ye.'

"'Faith, an' if it wuz twenty-five cints Oi couldn't help it,' sez Oi, 'an' it's ready to die Oi am,' sez Oi, 'fur Oi was confessed last wake an' Oi'm a-sayin' me prayers this minit.'

"Sez the littlest wan, an' he wa'n't so little, nigh as br'ad as that dooer, 'Hevn't ye sold yer cow?'

"'Ye'll foind her in the barrun,' sez Oi, 'though Oi hate to hev yez disturb her slapin'. It makes her drame an' that's bad fur the milk.'

"An' next thing them two robbers wuz laffin' at each other fur fools. Then the little wan sez:

"'Now, Granny, we'll lave ye in pace, if ye'll niver say a wurrud o' this'—but the other wan seemed kind o' sulky.

"'Sorra a wurrud,' sez Oi, 'an' good frinds we'll be yit,' an' they wuz makin' fur the dooer to clayer out whin I sez:

"'Howld on! Me friends can't lave me house an' naither boite nor sup; turn yer backs an' ye plaze, till Oi get on me skirt.' An' whin Oi wuz up an' dacint an' tould them they could luk, Oi sez, 'It's the foinest Lung balm in the land ye shall taste,' an' the littlest feller he starts a-coughin', oh, a turrible cough—it fair scairt me, like a hoopin' croup—an' the other seemed just mad, and the littlest wan made fun av him. Oi seen the mean wan wuz left-handed or let on he wuz, but when he reached out fur the bottle he had on'y three fingers on his right, an' they both av them had the biggest, blackest, awfulest lukin' bairds—I'd know them two bairds agin ony place—an' the littlest had a rag round his head, said he had a toothache, but shure yer teeth don't ache in the roots o' yer haiyer. Then when they wuz goin' the littlest wan put a dollar in me hand an' sez, 'It's all we got bechuxst us, Granny.' 'Godbless ye,' sez Oi, 'an' Oi take it kindly. It's the first Oi seen sense apple harvest, an' it's a friend ye hev in me whin ye nade wan,'" and the old woman chuckled over her victory.

"Granny, do you know what the Indians use for dyeing colours?" asked Yan, harking back to his main purpose.

"Shure, Yahn, they jest goes to the store an' gets boughten dyes in packages like we do."

"But before there were boughten dyes, didn't they use things in the woods?"

"That they did, for shure. Iverything man iver naded the good Lord made grow fur him in the woods."

"Yes, but what plants?"

"Faix, an' they differ fur different things."

"Yes, but what are they?" Then seeing how general questions failed, he went at it in detail.

"What do they use for yellow dye on the Porcupine quills—I mean before the boughten dyes came?"

"Well, shure an' that's a purty yellow flower that grows in the fall out in the field an' along the fences. The Yaller Weed, I call it, an' some calls it Goldenrod. They bile the quills in wather with the flower. Luk! Thar's some wool dyed that way."

"An' the red?" said Yan, scribbling away.

"Faix, an' they had no rale good red. They made a koind o' red o' berry juice b'iled, an' wanst I seen a turrible nice red an ol' squaw made b'ilin' the quills fust in yaller awhile an' next awhile in red."

"What berries make the best red, Granny?"

"Well, 'tain't the red wans, as ye moight think. Ye kin make it of Rosberries or Sumac or Huckleberries an' lots more, but Black Currants is redder than Red Currants, an' Squaw berries is best av them all."

"What are they like?"

"Shure, an' Oi'll show ye that same hairb," and they wandered around outside the shanty in vain search. "It's too airly," said Granny, "but it's round thayer in heaps in August an' is the purtiest red iver grew. 'An Pokeweed, too, it ain't har'ly flowerin' yit, but in the fall it hez berries that's so red they're nigh black, an' dyes the purtiest kind o' a purple."

"What makes blue?"

"Oi niver sane none in the quills. Thayer may be some. The good Lord made iverything grow in the woods, but I ain't found it an' niver seen none. Ye kin make a grane av the young shoots av Elder, but it ain't purty like that," and she pointed to a frightful emerald ribbon that Biddy wore, "an' a brown of Butternut bark, an' a black av White Oak chips an' bark. Ye kin make a kind o' grane av two dips, wan of yaller an wan av black. Ye kin dye black wid Hickory bark, an' orange (bad scran to it) wid the inner bark of Birch, an' yaller wid the roots av Hoop Ash, an' a foine scarlet from the bark av the little root av Dogwood, but there ain't no rale blue in the woods, an' that's what I tell them orange-an'-blue Prattisons on the 12th o' July, fur what the Lord didn't make the divil did.

"Ye kin make a koind of blue out o' the Indigo hairb, but 'tain't like this," pointing to some screaming cobalt, "an' if it ain't in the woods the good Lord niver meant us to have it. Yis! I tell ye it's the divil's own colour, that blue-orange an' blue is the divil's own colours, shure enough, fur brimstone's yaller; an' its blue whin it's burnin', that I hed from his riv'rince himself—bless him!"



XII.

Dinner with the Witch

Biddy meanwhile had waddled around the room slapping the boards with her broad bare feet as she prepared their dinner. She was evidently trying to put on style, for she turned out her toes excessively. She spoke several times about "the toime when she resoided with yer mamma," then at length, "Whayer's the tablecloth, Granny?"

"Now, wud ye listen to thot, an' she knowin' that divil a clath hev we in the wurruld, an' glad enough to hev vittles on the table, let alone a clath," said Granny, oblivious of the wreck she was making of Biddy's pride.

"Will ye hay tay or coffee, Yahn?" said Biddy.

"Tea," was Yan's choice.

"Faix, an' Oi'm glad ye said tay, fur Oi ain' seen a pick o' coffee sense Christmas, an' the tay Oi kin git in the woods, but thayer is somethin' Oi kin set afore ye that don't grow in the woods," and the old woman hobbled to a corner shelf, lifted down an old cigar box and from among matches, tobacco, feathers, tacks, pins, thread and dust she picked six lumps of cube sugar, formerly white.

"Thayer, shure, an' Oi wuz kapin' this fur whin his riv'rence comes; wanst a year he's here, God bless him! but that's fower wakes ahid, an' dear knows fwhat may happen afore thin. Here, an' a hearty welcome," said she, dropping three of the lumps in Yan's tea. "We'll kape the rest fur yer second cup. Hev some crame?" and she pushed over a sticky-handled shaving-mug full of excellent cream. "Biddy, give Yahn some bread."

The loaf, evidently the only one, was cut up and two or three slices forced into Yan's plate.

"Mebbe the butther is a little hoigh," exclaimed the hostess, noting that Yan was sparing of it. "Howld on." She went again to the corner shelf and got down an old glass jar with scalloped edge and a flat tin cover. It evidently contained jam. She lifted the cover and exclaimed:

"Well, Oi niver!" Then going to the door she fished out with her fingers a dead mouse and threw it out, remarking placidly, "Oi've wondered whayer the little divil wuz. Oi ain't sane him this two wakes, an' me a-thinkin' it wuz Tom ate him. May Oi be furgiven the onjustice av it. Consarn them flies! That cover niver did fit." And again her finger was employed, this time to scrape off an incrustation of unhappy flies that had died, like Clarence, in their favourite beverage.

"Thayer, Yan, now ate hearty, all av it, an' welcome. It does me good to see ye ate—thayer's lots more whayer that come from," though it was obvious that she had put her all upon the table.

Poor Yan was in trouble. He felt instinctively that the good old soul was wrecking her week's resources in this lavish hospitality, but he also felt that she would be deeply hurt if he did not appear to enjoy everything. The one possibly clean thing was the bread. He devoted himself to that; it was of poorest quality; one or two hairs looping in his teeth had been discouraging, but when he bit at a piece of linen rag with a button on it he was fairly upset. He managed to hide the rag, but could not conceal his sudden loss of appetite.

"Hev some more av this an' this," and in spite of himself his plate was piled up with things for him to eat, including a lot of beautifully boiled potatoes, but unfortunately the hostess carried them from the pot on the stove in a corner of her ancient and somber apron, and served him with her skinny paw.

Yan's appetite was wholly gone now, to the grief of his kind entertainer, "Shure an' she'd fix him up something to stringthen him," and Yan had hard work to beg off.

"Would ye like an aig," ventured Biddy.

"Why, yes! oh, yes, please," exclaimed Yan, with almost too much enthusiasm. He thought, "Well, hens are pure-minded creatures, anyway. An egg's sure to be clean."

Biddy waddled away to the 'barrun' and soon reappeared with three eggs.

"B'iled or fried?"

"Boiled," said Yan, aiming to keep to the safe side.

Biddy looked around for a pot.

"Shure, that's b'ilin' now," said Granny, pointing to the great mass of her undergarments seething in the boiler, and accordingly the eggs were dropped in there.

Yan fervently prayed that they might not break. As it was, two did crack open, but he got the other one, and that was virtually his dinner.

A Purple Blackbird came hopping in the door now.

"Will, now, thayer's Jack. Whayer hev ye been? I thought ye wuz gone fur good. Shure Oi saved him from a murtherin' gunner," she explained. "(Bad scran to the baste! I belave he was an Or'ngeman.) But he's all right now an' comes an' goes like he owned the place. Now, Jack, you git out av that wather pail," as the beautiful bird leaped into the half-filled drinking bucket and began to take a bath.

"Now luk at that," she shouted, "ye little rascal, come out o' that oven," for now the Blackbird had taken advantage of the open door to scramble into the dark warm oven.

"Thayer he goes to warrum his futs. Oh, ye little rascal! Next thing ye know some one'll slam the dooer, not knowin' a thing, and fire up, an' it's roastin' aloive ye'll be. Shure an' it's tempted Oi am to wring yer purty neck to save yer loife," and she drove him out with the harshest of words and the gentlest of hands.

Then Yan, with his arms full of labelled plants, set out for home.

"Good-boi, choild, come back agin and say me soon. Bring some more hairbs. Good-boi, an' bless ye. Oi hope it's no sin to say so, fur Oi know yer a Prattison an' ye are all on yez goin' to hell, but yer a foine bhoy. Oi'm tumble sorry yer a Prattison."

When Yan got back to the Raftens' he found the dinner table set for one, though it was now three in the afternoon.

"Come and get your dinner," said Mrs. Raften in her quiet motherly way. "I'll put on the steak. It will be ready in five minutes."

"But I've had my dinner with Granny de Neuville."

"Yes, I know!"

"Did she stir yer tea with one front claw an' put jam on yer bread with the other?" asked Raften, rather coarsely.

"Did she b'ile her pet Blackbird fur yer soup?" said Sam.

Yan turned very red. Evidently all had a good idea of what he had experienced, but it jarred on him to hear their mockery of the good old soul.

He replied warmly, "She was just as kind and nice as she could be."

"You had better have a steak now," said Mrs. Raften, in solicitous doubt.

How tempting was the thought of that juicy brown steak! How his empty stomach did crave it! But the continued mockery had stirred him. He would stand up for the warm-hearted old woman who had ungrudgingly given him the best she had—had given her all—to make a hearty welcome for a stranger. They should never know how gladly he would have eaten now, and in loyalty to his recent hostess he added the first lie of his life:

"No, thank you very much, but really I am not in the least hungry. I had a fine dinner at Granny de Neuville's."

Then, defying the inner pangs of emptiness, he went about his evening chores.



XIII

The Hostile Spy

"Wonder where Caleb got that big piece of Birch bark," said Yan; "I'd like some for dishes."

"Guess I know. He was over to Burns's bush. There's none in ours. We kin git some."

"Will you ask him?"

"Naw, who cares for an old Birch tree. We'll go an' borrow it when he ain't lookin'."

Yan hesitated.

Sam took the axe. "We'll call this a war party into the enemy's country. There's sure 'nuff war that-a-way. He's one of Da's 'friends.'"

Yan followed, in doubt still as to the strict honesty of the proceeding.

Over the line they soon found a good-sized canoe Birch, and were busy whacking away to get off a long roll, when a tall man and a small boy, apparently attracted by the chopping, came in sight and made toward them. Sam called under his breath: "It's old Burns. Let's git."

There was no time to save anything but themselves and the axe. They ran for the boundary fence, while Burns contented himself with shouting out threats and denunciations. Not that he cared a straw for the Birch tree—timber had no value in that country—but unfortunately Raften had quarrelled with all his immediate neighbours, therefore Burns did his best to make a fearful crime of the petty depredation.

His valiant son, a somewhat smaller boy than either Yan or Sam, came near enough to the boundary to hurl opprobrious epithets.

"Red-head—red-head! You red-headed thief! Hol' on till my paw gits hol' o' you—Raften, the Baften, the rick-strick Straften," and others equally galling and even more exquisitely refined.

"War party escaped and saved their scalps," and Sam placidly laid the axe in its usual place.

"Nothing lost but honour," added Yan. "Who's the kid?"

"Oh, that's Guy Burns. I know him. He's a mean little cuss, always sneaking and peeking. Lies like sixty. Got the prize—a big scrubbing-brush—for being the dirtiest boy in school. We all voted, and the teacher gave it to him."

Next day the boys made another war party for Birch bark, but had hardly begun operations when there was an uproar not far away, and a voice, evidently of a small boy, mouthing it largely, trying to pass itself off as a man's voice: "Hi, yer the —— ——. Yer git off my —— —— place —— ——"

"Le's capture the little cuss, Yan."

"An' burn him at the stake with horrid torture," was the rejoinder.

They set out in his direction, but again the appearance of Burns changed their war-party onslaught into a rapid retreat.

(More opprobrium.)

During the days that followed the boys were often close to the boundary, but it happened that Burns was working near and Guy had the quickest of eyes and ears. The little rat seemed ever on the alert. He soon showed by his long-distance remarks that he knew all about the boys' pursuits—had doubtless visited the camp in their absence. Several times they saw him watching them with intense interest when they were practising with bow and arrow, but he always retreated to a safe distance when discovered, and then enjoyed himself breathing out fire and slaughter.

One day the boys came to the camp at an unusual hour. On going into a near thicket Yan saw a bare foot under some foliage. "Hallo, what's this?" He stooped down and found a leg to it and at the end of that Guy Burns.

Up Guy jumped, yelling "Paw—Paw—PAW!" He ran for his life, the Indians uttering blood-curdlers on his track. But Yan was a runner, and Guy's podgy legs, even winged by fear, had no chance. He was seized and dragged howling back to the camp.

"You let me alone, you Sam Raften—now you let me alone!" There was, however, a striking lack of opprobrium in his remarks now. (Such delicacy is highly commendable in the very young.)

"First thing is to secure the prisoner, Yan."

Sam produced a cord.

"Pooh," said Yan. "You've got no style about you. Bring me some Leatherwood."

This was at hand, and in spite of howls and scuffles, Guy was solemnly tied to a tree—a green one—because, as Yan pointed out, that would resist the fire better.

The two Warriors now squatted cross-legged by the fire. The older one lighted a peace-pipe, and they proceeded to discuss the fate of the unhappy captive.

"Brother," said Yan, with stately gestures, "it is very pleasant to hear the howls of this miserable paleface." (It was really getting to be more than they could endure.)

"Ugh—heap good," said the Woodpecker.

"Ye better let me alone. My Paw'll fix you for this, you dirty cowards," wailed the prisoner, fast losing control of his tongue.

"Ugh! Take um scalp first, burn him after," and Little Beaver made some expressive signs.

"Wah—bully—me heap wicked," rejoined the Woodpecker, expectorating on a stone and beginning to whet his jack-knife.

The keen and suggestive "weet, weet, weet" of the knife on the stone smote on Guy's ears and nerves with appalling effect.

"Brother Woodpecker, the spirit of our tribe calls out for the blood of the victim—all of it."

"Great Chief Woodpecker, you mean," said Sam, aside. "If you don't call me Chief, I won't call you Chief, that's all."

The Great Woodpecker and Little Beaver now entered the teepee, repainted each other's faces, adjusted their head-dresses and stepped out to the execution.

The Woodpecker re-whetted his knife. It did not need it, but he liked the sound.

Little Beaver now carried a lot of light firewood and arranged it in front of the prisoner, but Guy's legs were free and he gave it a kick which sent it all flying. The two War-chiefs leaped aside. "Ugh! Heap sassy," said the ferocious Woodpecker. "Tie him legs, oh, Brother Great Chief Little Beaver!"

A new bark strip tied his legs securely to the tree. Then Chief Woodpecker approached with his knife and said:

"Great Brother Chief Little Beaver, if we scalp him there is only one scalp, and you will have nothing to show, except you're content with the wishbone."

Here was a difficulty, artificial yet real, but Yan suggested:

"Great Brother Chief Red-headed-Woodpecker-Settin'-on-a-Stump-with-his-Tail-Waggling-over-the Edge, no scalp him; skin his hull head, then each take half skin."

"Wah! Very good, oh Brother Big-Injun-Chief Great-Little-Beaver- Chaw-a-Tree-Down."

Then the Woodpecker got a piece of charcoal and proceeded in horrid gravity to mark out on the tow hair of the prisoner just what he considered a fair division. Little Beaver objected that he was entitled to an ear and half of the crown, which is the essential part of the scalp. The Woodpecker pointed out that fortunately the prisoner had a cow-lick that was practically a second crown. This ought to do perfectly well for the younger Chief's share. The charcoal lines were dusted off for a try-over. Both Chiefs got charcoal now and a new sketch plan was made on Guy's tow top and corrected till it was accepted by both.



The victim had really never lost heart till now. His flow of threats and epithets had been continuous and somewhat tedious. He had threatened to tell his "paw" and "the teacher," and all the world, but finally he threatened to tell Mr. Raften. This was the nearest to a home thrust of any yet, and in some uneasiness the Woodpecker turned to Little Beaver and said:

"Brother Chief, do you comprehend the language of the blithering Paleface? What does he say?"

"Ugh, I know not," was the reply. "Maybe he now singeth a death song in his own tongue."

Guy was not without pluck. He had kept up heart so far believing that the boys were "foolin'," but when he felt the awful charcoal line drawn to divide his scalp satisfactorily between these two inhuman, painted monsters, and when with a final "weet, weet, weet" of the knife on the stone the implacable Woodpecker approached and grabbed his tow locks in one hand, then he broke down and wept bitterly.

"Oh, please don't——Oh, Paw! Oh, Maw! Let me go this time an' I'll never do it again." What he would not do was not specified, but the evidence of surrender was complete.

"Hold on, Great Brother Chief," said Little Beaver. "It is the custom of the tribes to release or even to adopt such prisoners as have shown notable fortitude."

"Showed fortitude enough for six if it's the same thing as yellin'," said the Woodpecker, dropping into his own vernacular.

"Let us cut his bonds so that he may escape to his own people."

"Thar'd be more style to it if we left him thar overnight an' found next mornin' he had escaped somehow by himself," said the older Chief. The victim noted the improvement in his situation and now promised amid sobs to get them all the Birch bark they wanted—to do anything, if they would let him go. He would even steal for them the choicest products of his father's orchard.

Little Beaver drew his knife and cut bond after bond.

Woodpecker got his bow and arrow, remarking "Ugh, heap fun shoot him runnin'."

The last bark strip was cut. Guy needed no urging. He ran for the boundary fence in silence till he got over; then finding himself safe and unpursued, he rilled the air with threats and execrations. No part of his statement would do to print here.

After such a harrowing experience most boys would have avoided that swamp, but Guy knew Sam at school as a good-natured fellow. He began to think he had been unduly scared. He was impelled by several motives, a burning curiosity being, perhaps the most important. The result was that one day when the boys came to camp they saw Guy sneaking off. It was fun to capture him and drag him back. He was very sullen, and not so noisy as the other time, evidently less scared. The Chiefs talked of fire and torture and of ducking him in the pond without getting much response. Then they began to cross-examine the prisoner. He gave no answer. Why did he come to the camp? What was he doing—stealing? etc. He only looked sullen.

"Let's blindfold him and drive a Gyascutus down his back," said Yan in a hollow voice.

"Good idee," agreed Sam, not knowing any more than the prisoner what a Gyascutus was. Then he added, "just as well be merciful. It'll put him out o' pain."

It is the unknown that terrifies. The prisoner's soul was touched again. His mouth was trembling at the corners. He was breaking down when Yan followed it up: "Then why don't you tell us what you are doing here?"

He blubbered out, "I want to play Injun, too."

The boys broke down in another way. They had not had time to paint their faces, so that their expressions were very clear on this occasion.

Then Little Beaver arose and addressed the Council.

"Great Chiefs of the Sanger Nation: The last time we tortured and burned to death this prisoner, he created quite an impression. Never before has one of our prisoners shown so many different kinds of gifts. I vote to receive him into the Tribe."

The Woodpecker now arose and spoke:

"O wisest Chief but one in this Tribe, that's all right enough, but you know that no warrior can join us without first showing that he's good stuff and clear grit, all wool, and a cut above the average somehow. It hain't never been so. Now he's got to lick some Warrior of the Tribe. Kin you do that?"

"Nope."

"Or outrun one or outshoot him or something—or give us all a present. What kin you do?"

"I kin steal watermillyons, an' I kin see farder 'n any boy in school, an' I kin sneak to beat all creation. I watched you fellers lots of times from them bushes. I watched you buildin' that thar dam. I swum in it 'fore you did, an' I uster set an' smoke in your teepee when you wasn't thar, an' I heerd you talk the time you was fixin' up to steal our Birch bark."

"Don't seem to me like it all proves much fortitude. Have you got any presents for the oldest head Chief of the tribe?"

"I'll get you all the Birch bark you want. I can't git what you cut, coz me an' Paw burned that so you couldn't git it, but I'll git you lots more, an' maybe—I'll steal you a chicken once in awhile."

"His intentions are evidently honourable Let's take him in on sufferance," said Yan.

"All right," replied the head Chief, "he kin come in, but that don't spile my claim to that left half of his scalp down to that tuft of yellow moss on the scruff of his neck where the collar has wore off the dirt. I'm liable to call for it any time, an' the ear goes with it."

Guy wanted to treat this as a joke, but Sam's glittering eyes and inscrutable face were centered hungrily on that "yaller tuft" in a way that gave him the "creeps" again.

"Say, Yan—I mean Great Little Beaver—you know all about it, what kind o' stunts did they have to do to get into an Injun tribe, anyhow?"

"Different tribes do different ways, but the Sun Dance and the Fire Test are the most respectable and both terribly hard."

"Well, what did you do?" queried the Great Woodpecker.

"Both," said Yan grinning, as he remembered his sunburnt arms and shoulders.

"Quite sure?" said the older Chief in a tone of doubt.

"Yes, sir; and I bore it so well that every one there agreed that I was the best one in the Tribe," said Little Beaver, omitting to mention the fact that he was the only one in it. "I was unanimously named 'Howling Sunrise.'"

"Well, I want to be 'Howling Sunrise,'" piped Guy in his shrill voice.

"You? You don't know whether you can pass at all, you Yaller Mossback."

"Come, Mossy, which will you do?"

Guy's choice was to be sunburnt to the waist. He was burnt and freckled already to the shoulders, on arms as well as on neck, and his miserable cotton shirt so barely turned the sun's rays that he was elsewhere of a deep yellow tinge with an occasional constellation of freckles. Accordingly he danced about camp all one day with nothing on but his pants, and, of course, being so seasoned, he did not burn.

As the sun swung low the Chiefs assembled in Council.

The head Chief looked over the new Warrior, shook his head gravely and said emphatically: "Too green to burn. Your name is Sapwood."

Protest was in vain. "Sappy," he was and had to be until he won a better name. The peace pipe was smoked all round and he was proclaimed third War Chief of the Sanger Indians (the word War inserted by special request).

He was quite the most harmless member of the band and therefore took unusual pleasure in posing as the possessor of a perennial thirst for human heart-blood. War-paint was his delight, and with its aid he was singularly successful in correcting his round and smiling face into a savage visage of revolting ferocity. Paint was his hobby and his pride, but alas! how often it happens one's deepest sorrow is in the midst of one's greatest joy—the deepest lake is the old crater on top of the highest mountain. Sappy's eyes were not the sinister black beads of the wily Red-man, but a washed-out blue. His ragged, tow-coloured locks he could hide under wisps of horsehair, the paint itself redeemed his freckled skin, but there was no remedy for the white eyelashes and the pale, piggy, blue eyes. He kept his sorrow to himself, however, for he knew that if the others got an inkling of his feelings on the subject his name would have been promptly changed to "Dolly" or "Birdy," or some other equally horrible and un-Indian appellation.



XIV

The Quarrel

"Say, Yan, I saw a Blood-Robin this morning."

"That's a new one," said Yan, in a tone of doubt.

"Well, it's the purtiest bird in the country."

"What? A Humming-bird?"

"Na-aw-w-w. They ain't purty, only small."

"Well, that shows what you know," retorted Yan, "'for these exquisite winged gems are at once the most diminutive and brilliantly coloured of the whole feathered race.'" This phrase Yan had read some where and his overapt memory had seized on it.

"Pshaw!" said Sam. "Sounds like a book, but I'll bet I seen hundreds of Hummin'-birds round the Trumpet-vine and Bee-balm in the garden, an' they weren't a millionth part as purty as this. Why, it's just as red as blood, shines like fire and has black wings. The old Witch says the Indians call it a War-bird 'cause when it flew along the trail there was sure going to be war, which is like enough, fur they wuz at it all the hull time."

"Oh, I know," said Yan. "A Scarlet Tanager. Where did you see it?"

"Why, it came from the trees, then alighted on the highest pole of the teepee."

"Hope there isn't going to be any war there, Sam. I wish I had one to stuff."

"Tried to get him for you, sonny, spite of the Rules. Could 'a' done it, too, with a gun. Had a shy at him with an arrow an' I hain't been bird or arrow since. 'Twas my best arrow, too—old Sure-Death."

"Will ye give me the arrow if I kin find it?" said Guy.

"Now you bet I won't. What good'd that be to me?"

"Will you give me your chewin' gum?"

"No."

"Will you lend it to me?"

"Yep."

"Well, there's your old arrow," said Guy, pulling it from between the logs where it had fallen. "I seen it go there an' reckoned I'd lay low an' watch the progress of events, as Yan says," and Guy whinnied.

Early in the morning the Indians in war-paint went off on a prowl. They carried their bows and arrows, of course, and were fully alert, studying the trail at intervals and listening for "signs of the enemy."

Their moccasined feet gave forth no sound, and their keen eyes took in every leaf that stirred as their sinewy forms glided among the huge trunks of the primeval vegetation—at least, Yan's note-book said they did. They certainly went with very little noise, but they disturbed a small Hawk that flew from a Balsam-fir—a "Fire tree" they now called it, since they had discovered the wonderful properties of the wood.

Three arrows were shot after it and no harm done. Yan then looked into the tree and exclaimed:

"A nest."

"Looks to me like a fuzz-ball," said Guy.

"Guess not," replied Yan. "Didn't we scare the Hawk off?"

He was a good climber, quite the best of the three, and dropping his head-dress, coat, leggings and weapon, she shinned up the Balsam trunk, utterly regardless of the gum which hung in crystalline drops or easily burst bark-bladders on every part.

He was no sooner out of sight in the lower branches than Satan entered into Guy's small heart and prompted him thus:

"Le's play a joke on him an' clear out."

Sam's sense of humour beguiled him. They stuffed Yan's coat and pants with leaves and rubbish, put them properly together with the head-dress, then stuck one of his own arrows through the breast of the coat into the ground and ran away.

Meanwhile Yan reached the top of the tree and found that the nest was only one of the fuzz-balls so common on Fir trees. He called out to his comrades but got no reply, so came down. At first the ridiculous dummy seemed funny, then he found that his coat had been injured and the arrow broken. He called for his companions, but got no answer; again and again, without reply. He went to where they all had intended going, but if they were there they hid from him, and feeling himself scurvily deserted he went back to camp in no very pleasant humour. They were not there. He sat by the fire awhile, then, yielding to his habit of industry, he took off his coat and began to work at the dam.

He became engrossed in his work and did not notice the return of the runaways till he heard a voice saying "What's this?"

On turning he saw Sam poring over his private note-book and then beginning to read aloud:

"Kingbird, fearless crested Kingbird Thou art——"

But Yan snatched it out of his hands.

"I'll bet the rest was something about 'Singbird,'" said Sam.

Yan's face was burning with shame and anger. He had a poetic streak, and was morbidly sensitive about any one seeing its product. The Kingbird episode of their long evening walk was but one of many similar. He had learned to delight in these daring attacks of the intrepid little bird on the Hawks and Crows, and so magnified them into high heroics until he must try to record them in rhyme. It was very serious to him, and to have his sentiments afford sport to the others was more than he could bear. Of course Guy came out and grinned, taking his cue from Sam. Then he remarked in colourless tones, as though announcing an item of general news, "They say there was a fearless-crested Injun shot in the woods to-day."

The morning's desertion left Yan in no mood for chaffing. He rightly attributed the discourtesy to Guy. Turning savagely toward him he said, meaningly:

"Now, no more of your sass, you dirty little sneak."

"I ain't talkin' to you," Guy snickered, and followed Sam into the teepee. There were low voices within for a time. Yan went over toward the dam and began to plug mud into some possible holes. Presently there was more snickering in the teepee, then Guy came out alone, struck a theatrical attitude and began to recite to a tree above Yan's head:

"Kingbird, fearless crested Kingbird, Thou art but a blooming sing bird—"

But the mud was very handy and Yan hurled a mass that spattered Guy thoroughly and sent him giggling into the teepee.

"Them's the bow-kays," Sam was heard to say. "Go out an' git some more; dead sure you deserve 'em. Let me know when the calls for 'author' begin?" Then there was more giggling. Yan was fast losing all control of himself. He seized a big stick and strode into the teepee, but Sam lifted the cover of the far side and slipped out. Guy tried to do the same, but Yan caught him.

"Here, I ain't doin' nothin'."

The answer was a sounding whack which made him wriggle.

"You let me alone, you big coward. I ain't doin' nothin' to you. You better let me alone. Sam! S-A-M! S-A-A-A-M!!!" as the stick came down again and again.

"Don't bother me," shouted Sam outside. "I'm writin' poethry—terrible partic'lar job, poethry. He only means it in kindness, anyhow."

Guy was screaming now and weeping copiously.

"You'll get some more if you give me any more of your lip," said Yan, and stepped out to meet Sam with the note-book again, apparently scribbling away. As soon as he saw Yan he stood up, cleared his throat and began:

"Kingbird, fearless crested—"

But he did not finish it. Yan struck him a savage blow on the mouth. Sam sprang back a few steps. Yan seized a large stone.

"Don't you throw that at me," said Sam seriously. Yan sent it with his deadliest force and aim. Sam dodged it and then in self-defense ran at Yan and they grappled and fought, while Guy, eager for revenge, rushed to help Sam, and got in a few trifling blows.

Sam was heavier and stronger than Yan, but Yan had gained wonderfully since coming to Sanger. He was thin, but wiry, and at school he had learned the familiar hip-throw that is as old as Cain and Abel. It was all he did know of wrestling, but now it stood him in good stead. He was strong with rage, too—and almost as soon as they grappled he found his chance. Sam's heels flew up and he went sprawling in the dust. One straight blow on the nose sent Guy off howling, and seeing Sam once more on his feet, Yan rushed at him again like a wild beast. A moment later the big boy went tumbling over the bank into the pond.

"You see if I don't get you sent about your business from here," spluttered Sam, now thoroughly angry. "I'll tell Da you hender the wurruk." His eyes were full of water and Guy's were full of stars and of tears. Neither saw the fourth party near; but Yan did. There, not twenty yards away, stood William Raften, spectator of the whole affair—an expression not of anger but of infinite sorrow and disappointment on his face—not because they had quarrelled—no—he knew boy nature well enough not to give that a thought—but that his son, older and stronger than the other and backed by another boy, should be licked in fair fight by a thin, half-invalid.

It was as bitter a pill as he had ever had to swallow. He turned in silence and disappeared, and never afterward alluded to the matter.



XV

The Peace of Minnie

That night the two avoided each other. Yan ate but little, and to Mrs. Raften's kindly solicitous questions he said he was not feeling well.

After supper they were sitting around the table, the men sleepily silent, Yan and Sam moodily so. Yan had it all laid out in his mind now. Sam would make a one-sided report of the affair; Guy would sustain him. Raften himself was witness of Yan's violence.

The merry days at Sanger were over. He was doomed, and felt like a condemned felon awaiting the carrying out of the sentence. There was only one lively member of the group. That was little Minnie. She was barely three, but a great chatterbox. Like all children, she dearly loved a "secret," and one of her favourite tricks was to beckon to some one, laying her pinky finger on her pinker lips, and then when they stooped she would whisper in their ear, "Don't tell." That was all. It was her Idea of a "seek-it."

She was playing at her brother's knee. He picked her up and they whispered to each other, then she scrambled down and went to Yan. He lifted her with a tenderness that was born of the thought that she alone loved him now. She beckoned his head down, put her chubby arms around his neck and whispered, "Don't tell," then slid down, holding her dear innocent little finger warningly before her mouth.

What did it mean? Had Sam told her to do that, or was it a mere repetition of her old trick? No matter, it brought a rush of warm feeling into Yan's heart. He coaxed the little cherub back and whispered, "No, Minnie, I'll never tell." He began to see how crazy he had been. Sam was such a good fellow, he was very fond of him, and he wanted to make up; but no—with Sam holding threats of banishment over him, he could not ask for forgiveness. No, he would do nothing but wait and see.

He met Mr. Raften again and again that evening and nothing was said. He slept little that night and was up early. He met Mr. Raften alone—rather tried to meet him alone. He wanted to have it over with. He was one of the kind not prayed for in the Litany that crave "sudden death." But Raften was unchanged. At breakfast Sam was as usual, except to Yan, and not very different to him. He had a swelling on his lip that he said he got "tusslin' with the boys somehow or nuther."

After breakfast Raften said:

"Yahn, I want you to come with me to the schoolhouse."

"It's come at last," thought Yan, for the schoolhouse was on the road to the railroad station. But why did not Raften say "the station"? He was not a man to mince words. Nothing was said about his handbag either, and there was no room for it in the buggy anyway.

Raften drove in silence. There was nothing unusual in that. At length he said:

"Yahn, what's yer father goin' to make of ye?"

"An artist," said Yan, wondering what this had to do with his dismissal.

"Does an artist hev to be bang-up eddicated?"

"They're all the better for it."

"Av coorse, av coorse, that's what I tell Sam. It's eddication that counts. Does artists make much money?"

"Yes, some of them. The successful ones sometimes make millions."

"Millions? I guess not. Ain't you stretchin' it just a leetle?"

"No, sir. Turner made a million. Titian lived in a palace, and so did Raphael."

"Hm. Don't know 'em, but maybe so—maybe so. It's wonderful what eddication does—that's what I tell Sam."

They now drew near the schoolhouse. It was holiday time, but the door was open and on the steps were two graybearded men. They nodded to Raften. These men were the school trustees. One of them was Char-less Boyle; the other was old Moore, poor as a church mouse, but a genial soul, and really put on the Board as a lubricant between Boyle and Raften. Boyle was much the more popular. But Raften was always made trustee, for the people knew that he would take extremely good care of funds and school as well as of scholars.

This was a special meeting called to arrange for a new schoolhouse. Raften got out a lot of papers, including letters from the Department of Education. The School District had to find half the money; the Department would supply the other half if all conditions were complied with. Chief of these, the schoolhouse had to have a given number of cubic feet of air for each pupil. This was very important, but how were they to know in advance if they had the minimum and were not greatly over. It would not do to ask the Department that. They could not consult the teacher, for he was away now and probably would cheat them with more air than was needed. It was Raften who brilliantly solved this frightful mathematical problem and discovered a doughty champion in the thin, bright-eyed child.

"Yahn," he said, offering him a two-foot rule, "can ye tell me how many foot of air is in this room for every scholar when the seats is full?"

"You mean cubic feet?"

"Le's see," and Raften and Moore, after stabbing at the plans with huge forefingers and fumbling cumberously at the much-pawed documents, said together: "Yes, it says cubic feet." Yan quickly measured the length of the room and took the height with the map-lifter. The three graybeards gazed with awe and admiration as they saw how sure he seemed. He then counted the seats and said, "Do you count the teacher?" The men discussed this point, then decided, "Maybe ye better; he uses more wind than any of them. Ha, ha!"

Yan made a few figures on paper, then said, "Twenty feet, rather better."

"Luk at thot," said Raften in a voice of bullying and triumph; "jest agrees with the Gover'ment Inspector. I towld ye he could. Now let's put the new buildin' to test."

More papers were pawed over.

"Yahn, how's this—double as many children, one teacher an' the buildin' so an' so."

Yan figured a minute and said, "Twenty-five feet each."

"Thar, didn't I tell ye," thundered Raften; "didn't I say that that dhirty swindler of an architect was playing us into the conthractor's hands—thought we wuz simple—a put-up job, the hull durn thing. Luk at it! They're nothing but a gang of thieves."

Yan glanced at the plan that was being flourished in the air.

"Hold on," he said, with an air of authority that he certainly never before had used to Raften, "there's the lobby and cloak-room to come off." He subtracted their bulk and found the plan all right—the Government minimum of air.

Boyle's eye had now just a little gleam of triumphant malice. Raften seemed actually disappointed not to have found some roguery.

"Well, they're a shcaly lot, anyhow. They'll bear watchin'," he added, in tones of self-justification.

"Now, Yahn, last year the township was assessed at $265,000 an' we raised $265 with a school-tax of wan mill on the dollar. This year the new assessment gives $291,400; how much will the same tax raise if cost of collecting is same?"

"Two hundred and ninety-one dollars and forty cents," said Yan, without hesitation—and the three men sat back in their chairs and gasped.

It was the triumph of his life. Even old Boyle beamed in admiration, and Raften glowed, feeling that not a little of it belonged to him.

There was something positively pathetic in the simplicity of the three shrewd men and their abject reverence for the wonderful scholarship of this raw boy, and not less touching was their absolute faith in his infallibility as a mathematician.

Raften grinned at him in a peculiar, almost a weak way. Yan had never seen that expression on his face before, excepting once, and that was as he shook hands with a noted pugilist just after he had won a memorable fight. Yan did not know whether he liked it or not.

On the road home Raften talked with unusual freeness about his plans for his son. (Yan began to realize that the storm had blown over.) He harped on his favourite theme, "eddication." If Yan had only known, that was the one word of comfort that Raften found when he saw his big boy go down: "It's eddication done it. Oh, but he's fine eddicated." Yan never knew until years afterward, when a grown man and he and Raften were talking of the old days, that he had been for some time winning respect from the rough-and-ready farmer, but what finally raised him to glorious eminence was the hip-throw that he served that day on Sam.

* * * * *

Raften was all right, Yan believed, but what of Sam? They had not spoken yet. Yan wished to make up, but it grew harder. Sam had got over his wrath and wanted a chance, but did not know how.

He had just set down his two buckets after feeding the pigs when Minnie came toddling out.

"Sam! Sam! Take Minnie to 'ide," then seeing Yan she added, "Yan, you mate a tair, tate hold Sam's hand."

The queen must be obeyed. Sam and Yan sheepishly grasped hands to make a queen's chair for the little lady. She clutched them both around the neck and brought their heads close together. They both loved the pink-and-white baby between them, and both could talk to her though not to each other. But there is something in touch that begets comprehension. The situation was becoming ludicrous when Sam suddenly burst out laughing, then:

"Say, Yan, let's be friends."

"I—I want—to—be," stammered Yan, with tears standing in his eyes. "I'm awfully sorry. I'll never do it again,"

"Oh, shucks! I don't care," said Sam. "It was all that dirty little sneak that made the trouble; but never mind, it's all right. The only thing that worries me is how you sent me flying. I'm bigger an' stronger an' older, I can heft more an' work harder, but you throwed me like a bag o' shavings, I only wish I knowed how you done it."



PART III

IN THE WOODS



I

Really in the Woods

"Ye seem to waste a powerful lot o' time goin' up an' down to yer camp; why don't ye stay thayer altogether?" said Raften one day, in the colourless style that always worried every one, for they did not know whether it was really meant or was mere sarcasm.

"Suits me. 'Tain't our choice to come home," replied his son.

"We'd like nothing better than to sleep there, too," said Yan.

"Well, why don't ye? That's what I'd do if I was a boy playin' Injun; I'd go right in an' play."

"All right now," drawled Sam (he always drawled in proportion to his emphasis), "that suits us; now we're a-going sure."

"All right, bhoys," said Raften; "but mind ye the pigs an' cattle's to be 'tended to every day."

"Is that what ye call lettin' us camp out—come home to work jest the same?"

"No, no, William," interposed Mrs. Raften; "that's not fair. That's no way to give them a holiday. Either do it or don't. Surely one of the men can do the chores for a month."

"Month—I didn't say nothin' about a month."

"Well, why don't you now?"

"Whoi, a month would land us into harvest," and William had the air of a man at bay, finding them all against him.

"I'll do Yahn's chores for a fortnight if he'll give me that thayer pictur he drawed of the place," now came in Michel's voice from the far end of the table—"except Sunday," he added, remembering a standing engagement, which promised to result in something of vast importance to him.

"Wall, I'll take care o' them Sundays," said Si Lee.

"Yer all agin me," grumbled William with comical perplexity. "But bhoys ought to be bhoys. Ye kin go."

"Whoop!" yelled Sam.

"Hooray!" joined in Yan, with even more interest though with less unrestraint.

"But howld on, I ain't through—"

"I say, Da, we want your gun. We can't go camping without a gun."

"Howld on, now. Give me a chance to finish. Ye can go fur two weeks, but ye got to go; no snakin' home nights to sleep. Ye can't hev no matches an' no gun. I won't hev a lot o' children foolin' wid a didn't-know-it-was-loaded, an' shootin' all the birds and squirrels an' each other, too. Ye kin hev yer bows an' arrows an' ye ain't likely to do no harrum. Ye kin hev all the mate an' bread an' stuff ye want, but ye must cook it yerselves, an' if I see any signs of settin' the Woods afire I'll be down wid the rawhoide an' cut the very livers out o' ye."

The rest of the morning was devoted to preparation, Mrs. Raften taking the leading hand.

"Now, who's to be cook?" she asked.

"Sam"—"Yan"—said the boys in the same breath.

"Hm! You seem in one mind about it. Suppose you take it turn and turn about—Sam first day."

Then followed instructions for making coffee in the morning, boiling potatoes, frying bacon. Bread and butter enough they were to take with them—eggs, too.

"You better come home for milk every day or every other day, at least," remarked the mother.

"We'd ruther steal it from the cows in the pasture," ventured Sam, "seems naturaler to me Injun blood."

"If I ketch ye foolin' round the cows or sp'ilin' them the fur'll fly," growled Raften.

"Well, kin we hook apples and cherries?" and Sam added in explanation; "they're no good to us unless they're hooked."

"Take all the fruit ye want."

"An' potatoes?"

"Yes."

"An' aigs?"

"Well, if ye don't take more'n ye need."

"An' cakes out of the pantry? Indians do that."

"No; howld on now. That is a good place to draw the line. How are ye goin' to get yer staff down thayer? It's purty heavy. Ye see thayer are yer beds an' pots an' pans, as well as food."

"We'll have to take a wagon to the swamp and then carry them on our backs on the blazed trail," said Sam, and explained "our backs" by pointing to Michel and Si at work in the yard.

"The road goes as far as the creek," suggested Yan; "let's make a raft there an' take the lot in it down to the swimming-pond; that'd be real Injun."

"What'll ye make the raft of?" asked Raften.

"Cedar rails nailed together," answered Sam.

"No nails in mine," objected Yan; "that isn't Injun."

"An' none o' my cedar rails fur that. 'Pears to me it'd be less work an' more Injun to pack the stuff on yer backs an' no risk o' wettin' the beds."

So the raft was given up, and the stuff was duly carted to the creek's side. Raften himself went with it. He was a good deal of a boy at heart and he was much in sympathy with the plan. His remarks showed a mixture of interest, and doubt as to the wisdom of letting himself take so much interest.

"Hayre, load me up," he said, much to the surprise of the boys, as they came to the creek's edge. His broad shoulders carried half of the load. The blazed trail was only two hundred yards long, and in two trips the stuff was all dumped down in front of the teepee.

Sam noted with amusement the unexpected enthusiasm of his father. "Say, Da, you're just as bad as we are. I believe you'd like to join us."

"'Moinds me o' airly days here," was the reply, with a wistful note in his voice. "Many a night me an' Caleb Clark slep' out this way on this very crick when them fields was solid bush. Do ye know how to make a bed?"

"Don't know a thing," and Sam winked at Yan. "Show us."

"I'll show ye the rale thing. Where's the axe?"

"Haven't any," said Yan. "There's a big tomahawk and a little tomahawk."

Raften grinned, took the big "tomahawk" and pointed to a small Balsam Fir. "Now there's a foine bed-tree."

"Why, that's a fire-tree, too," said Yan, as with two mighty strokes Raften sent it toppling down, then rapidly trimmed it of its flat green boughs. A few more strokes brought down a smooth young Ash and cut it into four pieces, two of them seven feet long and two of them five feet. Next he cut a White Oak sapling and made four sharp pegs each two feet long.

"Now, boys, whayer do you want yer bed?" then stopping at a thought he added, "Maybe ye didn't want me to help—want to do everything yerselves?"

"Ugh, bully good squaw. Keep it up—wagh!" said his son and heir, as he calmly sat on a log and wore his most "Injun brave" expression of haughty approval.

The father turned with an inquiring glance to Yan, who replied:

"We're mighty glad of your help. You see, we don't know how. It seems to me that I read once the best place in the teepee is opposite the door and a little to one side. Let's make it here." So Raften placed the four logs for the sides and ends of the bed and drove in the ground the four stakes to hold them. Yan brought in several armfuls of branches, and Raften proceeded to lay them like shingles, beginning at the head-log of the bed and lapping them very much. It took all the fir boughs, but when all was done there was a solid mass of soft green tips a foot thick, all the butts being at the ground.

"Thayer," said Raften, "that's an Injun feather bed an' safe an' warrum. Slapin' on the ground's terrible dangerous, but that's all right. Now make your bed on that." Sam and Yan did so, and when it was finished Raften said: "Now, fetch that little canvas I told yer ma to put in; that's to fasten to the poles for an inner tent over the bed."

Yan stood still and looked uncomfortable.

"Say, Da, look at Yan. He's got that tired look that he wears when the rules is broke."

"What's wrong," asked Raften.

"Indians don't have them that I ever heard of," said Little Beaver.

"Yan, did ye iver hear of a teepee linin' or a dew-cloth?"

"Yes," was the answer, in surprise at the unexpected knowledge of the farmer.

"Do ye know what they're like?"

"No—at least—no—"

"Well, I do; that's what it's like. That's something I do know, fur I seen old Caleb use wan."

"Oh, I remember reading about it now, and they are like that, and it's on them that the Indians paint their records. Isn't that bully," as he saw Raften add two long inner stakes which held the dew-cloth like a canopy.

"Say, Da, I never knew you and Caleb were hunting together. Thought ye were jest natural born enemies."

"Humph!" grunted Raften. "We wuz chums oncet. Never had no fault to find till we swapped horses."

"Sorry you ain't now, 'cause he's sure sharp in the woods."

"He shouldn't a-tried to make an orphan out o' you."

"Are you sure he done it?"

"If 'twasn't him I dunno who 'twas. Yan, fetch some of them pine knots thayer."

Yan went after the knots; it was some yards into the woods, and out there he was surprised to see a tall man behind a tree. A second's glance showed it to be Caleb. The Trapper laid one finger on his lips and shook his head. Yan nodded assent, gathered the knots, and went back to the camp, where Sam continued:

"You skinned him out of his last cent, old Boyle says."

"An' whoi not, when he throid to shkin me? Before that I was helpin' him, an' fwhat must he do but be ahfter swappin' horses. He might as well ast me to play poker and then squeal when I scooped the pile. Naybours is wan thing an' swappin' horses is another. All's fair in a horse trade, an' friends didn't orter swap horses widout they kin stand the shkinnin'. That's a game by itself. Oi would 'a' helped him jest the same afther that swap an' moore, fur he wuz good stuff, but he must nades shoot at me that noight as I come home wit the wad, so av coorse—"

"I wish ye had a Dog now," said the farmer in the new tone of a new subject; "tramps is a nuisance at all toimes, an' a Dog is the best med'cine for them. I don't believe old Cap'd stay here; but maybe yer near enough to the house so they won't bother ye. An' now I guess the Paleface will go back to the settlement. I promised ma that I'd see that yer bed wuz all right, an' if ye sleep warrum an' dry an' hev plenty to ate ye'll take no harrum."

So he turned away, but as he was quitting the clearing he stopped,—the curious boyish interest was gone from his face, the geniality from his voice—then in his usual stern tones of command:



"Now, bhoys, ye kin shoot all the Woodchucks yer a mind ter, fur they are a nuisance in the field. Yer kin kill Hawks an' Crows an' Jays, fur they kill other birds, an' Rabbits an' Coons, fur they are fair game; but I don't want to hear of yer killin' any Squirrels or Chipmunks or Song-birds, an' if ye do I'll stop the hull thing an' bring ye back to wurruk, an' use the rawhoide on tap o' that."



II

The First Night and Morning

It was a strange new feeling that took possession of the boys as they saw Mr. Raften go, and when his step actually died away on the blazed trail they felt that they were really and truly alone in the woods and camping out. To Yan it was the realization of many dreams, and the weirdness of it was helped by the remembrance of the tall old man he had seen watching them from behind the trees. He made an excuse to wander out there, but of course Caleb was gone.

"Fire up," Sam presently called out. Yan was the chief expert with the rubbing-sticks, and within a minute or two he had the fire going in the middle of the teepee and Sam set about preparing the evening meal. This was supposed to be Buffalo meat and Prairie roots (beef and potatoes). It was eaten rather quietly, and then the boys sat down on the opposite sides of the fire. The conversation dragged, then died a natural death; each was busy with his thoughts, and there was, moreover, an impressive and repressive something or other all around them. Not a stillness, for there were many sounds, but beyond those a sort of voiceless background that showed up all the myriad voices. Some of these were evidently Bird, some Insect, and a few were recognized as Tree-frog notes. In the near stream were sounds of splashing or a little plunge.

"Must be Mushrat," whispered Sam to the unspoken query of his friend.

A loud, far "Oho-oho-oho" was familiar to both as the cry of the Horned Owl, but a strange long wail rang out from the trees overhead.

"What's that?"

"Don't know," was all they whispered, and both felt very uncomfortable. The solemnity and mystery of the night was on them and weighing more heavily with the waning light. The feeling was oppressive. Neither had courage enough to propose going to the house or their camping would have ended. Sam arose and stirred the fire, looked around for more wood, and, seeing none, he grumbled (to himself) and stepped outside in the darkness to find some. It was not till long afterward that he admitted having had to dare himself to step out into the darkness. He brought in some sticks and fastened the door as tightly as possible. The blazing fire in the teepee was cheering again. The boys perhaps did not realize that there was actually a tinge of homesickness in their mood, yet both were thinking of the comfortable circle at the house. The blazing fire smoked a little, and Sam said:

"Kin you fix that to draw? You know more about it 'an me."

Yan now forced himself to step outside. The wind was rising and had changed. He swung the smoke poles till the vent was quartering down, then hoarsely whispered, "How's that?"

"That's better," was the reply in a similar tone, though there was no obvious difference yet.

He went inside with nervous haste and fastened up the entrance.

"Let's make a good fire and go to bed."

So they turned in after partly undressing, but not to sleep for hours. Yan in particular was in a state of nervous excitement. His heart had beaten violently when he went out that time, and even now that mysterious dread was on him. The fire was the one comfortable thing. He dozed off, but started up several times at some slight sound. Once it was a peculiar "Tick, tick, scr-a-a-a-a-pe, lick-scra-a-a-a-a-a-pe," down the teepee over his head. "A Bear" was his first notion, but on second thoughts he decided it was only a leaf sliding down the canvas. Later he was roused by a "Scratch, scratch, scratch" close to him. He listened silently for some time. This was no leaf; it was an animal! Yes, surely—it was a Mouse. He slapped the canvas violently and "hissed" till it went away, but as he listened he heard again that peculiar wail in the tree-tops. It almost made his hair sit up. He reached out and poked the fire together into a blaze. All was still and in time he dozed off. Once more he was wide awake in a flash and saw Sam sitting up in bed listening.



"What is it, Sam?" he whispered.

"I dunno. Where's the axe?"

"Right here."

"Let me have it on my side. You kin have the hatchet."

But they dropped off at last and slept soundly till the sun was strong on the canvas and filling the teepee with a blaze of transmitted light.

"Woodpecker! Woodpecker! Get up! Get up! Hi-e-yo! Hi-e-yo! Double-u-double-o-d-bang-fizz-whackety-whack-y-r-chuck- brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-Woodpecker," shouted Yan to his sleepy chum, quoting a phrase that Sam when a child had been taught as the true spelling of his nickname.

Sam woke slowly, but knowing perfectly where he was, and drawled:

"Get up yourself. You're cook to-day, an' I'll take my breakfast in bed. Seems like my knee is broke out again."

"Oh, get up, and let's have a swim before breakfast."

"No, thank you, I'm too busy just now; 'sides, it's both cold and wet in that pond, this time o' day."

The morning was fresh and bright; many birds were singing, although it was July, a Red-eyed Vireo and a Robin were in full song; and as Yan rose to get the breakfast he wondered why he had been haunted by such strange feelings the night before. It was incomprehensible now. He wished that appalling wail in the tree-tops would sound again, so he might trace it home.

There still were some live coals in the ashes, and in a few minutes he had a blazing fire, with the pot boiling for coffee, and the bacon in the fryer singing sweetest music for the hungry.

Sam lay on his back watching his companion and making critical remarks.

"You may be an A1 cook—at least, I hope you are, but you don't know much about fire-wood," said he. "Now look at that," as one huge spark after another exploded from the fire and dropped on the bed and the teepee cover.

"How can I help it?"

"I'll bet Da's best cow against your jack-knife you got some Ellum or Hemlock in that fire."

"Well, I have," Yan admitted, with an air of surrender.

"My son," said the Great Chief Woodpecker, "no sparking allowed in the teepee. Beech, Maple, Hickory or Ash never spark. Pine knots an' roots don't, but they make smoke like—like—oh—you know. Hemlock, Ellum, Chestnut, Spruce and Cedar is public sparkers, an' not fit for dacint teepee sassiety. Big Injun heap hate noisy, crackling fire. Enemy hear that, an'—an'—it burns his bedclothes."

"All right, Grandpa," and the cook made a mental note, then added in tones of deadly menace, "You get up now, do you understand!" and he picked up a bucket of water.

"That might scare the Great Chief Woodpecker if the Great Chief Cook had a separate bed, but now he smiles kind o' scornful," was all the satisfaction he got. Then seeing that breakfast really was ready, Sam scrambled out a few minutes later. The coffee acted like an elixir—their spirits rose, and before the meal was ended it would have been hard to find two more hilarious and enthusiastic campers. Even the vague terrors of the night were now sources of amusement.



III

A Crippled Warrior and the Mud Albums

"Say, Sam; what about Guy? Do we want him?"

"Well, it's just like this. If it was at school or any other place I wouldn't be bothered with the dirty little cuss, but out in the woods like this one feels kind o' friendly, an' three's better than two. Besides, he has been admitted to the Tribe already."

"Yes, that's what I say. Let's give him a yell."

So the boys uttered a long yell, produced by alternating the voice between a high falsetto and a natural tone. This was the "yell," and had never failed to call Guy forth to join them unless he had some chore on hand and his "Paw" was too near to prevent his renegading to the Indians. He soon appeared waving a branch, the established signal that he came as a friend.

He came very slowly, however, and the boys saw that he limped frightfully, helping himself along with a stick. He was barefoot, as usual, but his left foot was swaddled in a bundle of rags.

"Hello, Sappy; what happened? Out to Wounded Knee River?"

"Nope. Struck luck. Paw was bound I'd ride the Horse with the scuffler all day, but he gee'd too short an' I arranged to tumble off'n him, an' Paw cuffled me foot some. Law! how I did holler! You should 'a' heard me."



"Bet we did," said Sam. "When was it?"

"Yesterday about four."

"Exactly. We heard an awful screech and Yan says, says he, 'There's the afternoon train at Kelly's Crossing, but ain't she late?'

"'Train!' says I. 'Pooh. I'll bet that's Guy Burns getting a new licking.'"

"Guess I'll well up now," said War Chief Sapwood, so stripped his foot, revealing a scratch that would not have cost a thought had he got it playing ball. He laid the rags away carefully and with them every trace of the limp, then entered heartily into camp life.

The vast advantage of being astir early now was seen. There were Squirrels in every other tree, there were birds on every side, and when they ran to the pond a wild Duck spattered over the surface and whistled out of sight.

"What you got?" called Sam, as he saw Yan bending eagerly over something down by the pond.

Yan did not answer, and so Sam went over and saw him studying out a mark in the mud. He was trying to draw it in his note-book.

"What is it?" repeated Sam.

"Don't know. Too stubby for a Muskrat, too much claw for a Cat, too small for a Coon, too many toes for a Mink."

"I'll bet it's a Whangerdoodle."

Yan merely chuckled in answer to this.

"Don't you laugh," said the Woodpecker, solemnly, "You'd be more apt to cry if you seen one walk into the teepee blowing the whistle at the end of his tail. Then it'd be, 'Oh, Sam, where's the axe?'"

"Tell you what I do believe it is," said Yan, not noticing this terrifying description; "it's a Skunk."

"Little Beaver, my son! I thought I would tell you, then I sez to meself, 'No; it's better for him to find out by his lone. Nothing like a struggle in early life to develop the stuff in a man. It don't do to help him too much,' sez I, an' so I didn't."

Here Sam condescendingly patted the Second War Chief on the head and nodded approvingly. Of course he did not know as much about the track as Yan did, but he prattled on:

"Little Beaver! you're a heap struck on tracks—Ugh—good! You kin tell by them everything that passes in the night. Wagh! Bully! You're likely to be the naturalist of our Tribe. But you ain't got gumption. Now, in this yer hunting-ground of our Tribe there is only one place where you can see a track, an' that is that same mud-bank; all the rest is hard or grassy. Now, what I'd do if I was a Track-a-mist, I'd give the critters lots o' chance to leave tracks. I'd fix it all round with places so nothing could come or go 'thout givin' us his impressions of the trip. I'd have one on each end of the trail coming in, an' one on each side of the creek where it comes in an' goes out."

"Well, Sam, you have a pretty level head. I wonder I didn't think of that myself."

"My son, the Great Chief does the thinking. It's the rabble—that's you and Sappy—that does the work."

But all the same he set about it at once with Yan, Sappy following with a slight limp now. They removed the sticks and rubbish for twenty feet of the trail at each end and sprinkled this with three or four inches of fine black loam. They cleared off the bank of the stream at four places, one at each side where it entered the woods, and one at each side where it went into the Burns's Bush.

"Now," said Sam, "there's what I call visitors' albums like the one that Phil Leary's nine fatties started when they got their brick house and their swelled heads, so every one that came in could write their names an' something about 'this happy, happy, ne'er-to-be-forgotten visit'—them as could write. Reckon that's where our visitors get the start, for all of ours kin write that has feet."

"Wonder why I didn't think o' that," said Yan, again and again. "But there's one thing you forget," he said. "We want one around the teepee."

This was easily made, as the ground was smooth and bare there, and Sappy forgot his limp and helped to carry ashes and sand from the fire-hole. Then planting his broad feet down in the dust, with many snickers, he left some very interesting tracks.

"I call that a bare track" said Sam.

"Go ahead and draw it," giggled Sappy

"Why not?" and Yan got out his book.

"Bet you can't make it life-size," and Sam glanced from the little note-book to the vast imprint.

After it was drawn, Sam said, "Guess I'll peel off and show you a human track." He soon gave an impression of his foot for the artist, and later Yan added his own; the three were wholly different.

"Seems to me it would be about right, if you had the ways the toes pointed and the distance apart to show how long the legs wuz."

Again Sam had given Yan a good idea. From that time he noted these two points and made his records much better.

"Air you fellers roostin' here now?" said Sappy in surprise, as he noted the bed as well as the pots and pans.

"Yep."

"Well, I wanter, too. If I kin git hol' o' Maw 'thout Paw, it'll be O.K."

"You let on we don't want you and Paw'll let you come. Tell him Ole Man Raften ordered you off the place an' he'll fetch you here himself."

"I guess there's room enough in that bed fur three," remarked the Third War Chief.

"Well, I guess there ain't," said Woodpecker. "Not when the third one won first prize for being the dirtiest boy in school. You can get stuff an' make your own bed, across there on the other side the fire."

"Don't know how."

"We'll show you, only you'll have to go home for blankets an' grub."

The boys soon cut a Fir-bough bed, but Guy put off going home for the blankets as long as he could. He knew and they suspected that there was no chance of his rejoining them again that day. So after sundown he replaced his foot-rags and limped down the trail homeward, saying, "I'll be back in a few minutes," and the boys knew perfectly well that he would not.

The evening meal was over; they had sat around wondering if the night would repeat its terrors. An Owl "Hoo-hoo-ed" in the trees. There was a pleasing romance in the sound. The boys kept up the fire till about ten, then retired, determined that they would not be scared this time. They were barely off to sleep when the most awful outcry arose in the near woods, like "a Wolf with a sore throat," then the yells of a human being in distress. Again the boys sat up in fright. There was a scuffling outside—a loud and terrified "Hi—hi—hi—Sam!" Then an attack was made on the door. It was torn open, and in tumbled Guy. He was badly frightened; but when the fire was lighted and he calmed down a little he confessed that Paw had sent him to bed, but when all was still he had slipped out the window, carrying the bedclothes. He was nearly back to the camp when he decided to scare the boys by letting off a few wolfish howls, but he made himself very scary by doing it, and when a wild answer came from the tree-tops—a hideous, blaring screech—he lost all courage, dropped the bedding, and ran toward the teepee yelling for help.

The boys took torches presently and went nervously in search of the missing blankets. Guy's bed was made and in an hour they were once more asleep.

In the morning Sam was up and out first. From the home trail he suddenly called:

"Yan, come here."

"Do you mean me?" said Little Beaver, with haughty dignity.

"Yep, Great Chief; git a move on you. Hustle out here. Made a find. Do you see who was visiting us last night while we slept?" and he pointed to the "album" on the inway. "I hain't shined them shoes every week with soot off the bottom of the pot without knowin' that one pair of 'em was wore by Ma an' one of 'em by Da. But let's see how far they come. Why, I orter looked round the teepee before tramplin' round." They went back, and though the trails were much hidden by their own, they found enough around the doorway to show that during the night, or more likely late in the evening, the father and mother had paid them a visit in secret—had inspected the camp as they slept, but finding no one stirring and the boys breathing the deep breath of healthy sleep, they had left them undisturbed.

"Say, boys—I mean Great Chiefs—what we want in camp is a Dog, or one of these nights some one will steal our teeth out o' our heads an' we won't know a thing till they come back for the gums. All Injun camps have Dogs, anyway."

The next morning the Third War Chief was ordered out by the Council, first to wash himself clean, then to act as cook for the day. He grumbled as he washed, that "'Twan't no good—he'd be all dirty again in two minutes," which was not far from the truth. But he went at the cooking with enthusiasm, which lasted nearly an hour. After this he did not see any fun in it, and for once he, as well as the others, began to realize how much was done for them at home. At noon Sappy set out nothing but dirty dishes, and explained that so long as each got his own it was all right. His foot was very troublesome at meal time also. He said it was the moving round when he was hurrying that made it so hard to bear, but in their expedition with bows and arrows later on he found complete relief.

"Say, look at the Red-bird," he shouted, as a Tanager flitted onto a low branch and blazed in the sun. "Bet I hit him first shot!" and he drew an arrow.

"Here you, Saphead," said Sam, "quit that shooting at little birds. It's bad medicine. It's against the rules; it brings bad luck—it brings awful bad luck. I tell you there ain't no worse luck than Da's raw-hide—that I know."

"Why, what's the good o' playin' Injun if we can't shoot a blame thing?" protested Sappy.

"You kin shoot Crows an' Jays if you like, an' Woodchucks, too."

"I know where there's a Woodchuck as big as a Bear."

"Ah! What size Bear?"

"Well, it is. You kin laugh all you want to. He has a den in our clover field, an' he made it so big that the mower dropped in an' throwed Paw as far as from here to the crick."

"An' the horses, how did they get out?"

"Well! It broke the machine, an' you should have heard Paw swear. My! but he was a socker. Paw offered me a quarter if I'd kill the old whaler. I borrowed a steel trap an' set it in the hole, but he'd dig out under it an' round it every time. I'll bet there ain't anything smarter'n an old Woodchuck."

"Is he there yet?" asked War Chief No. 2.

"You just bet he is. Why, he has half an acre of clover all eat up."

"Let's try to get him," said Yan. "Can we find him?"

"Well, I should say so. I never come by but I see the old feller. He's so big he looks like a calf, an' so old an' wicked he's gray-headed."

"Let's have a shot at him," suggested the Woodpecker. "He's fair game. Maybe your Paw'll give us a quarter each if we kill him."