Ous trophies of former wars. In front of the wigwam a great
fire was built, and

several large black kettles of venison were suspended over it. The
crowd were seated about it on the grass in a great circle. Behind them some of the braves

stood leaning against the neck s of their ponies, their tall figures draped in loose robes which were well drawn over their eyes. Young girls, with their faces glowing like bright red autumn leaves, their glossy braids falling over each ear, sat coquettishly beside their chaperons. It was a custom for young Indian women to invite some older

relative to escort them to the public feasts.
Though it was
not an iron law, it was generally observed. Haraka Wambdi was a strong young brave, who had just returned from his first battle, a warrior. His near relatives, to celebrate his new rank, were spreading a feast to which the whole of the Indian village was invited. Holding my pretty striped blanket in readiness to throw over my shoulders, I grew more and

more restless as I watched the gay throng
assembling. My mother was busily broiling a wild duck that my aunt had that morning brought over. "Mother, mother, why do you stop to cook a small meal when we are invited to a feast?" I asked, with a snarl
in my voice. "My child, learn to wait. On our way
to the celebration we are going to stop at Chanyu's wigwam.
His aged mother-in-law is lying very ill, and I think she would like a taste of this small game." Having once seen the suffering on the thin, pinched features of this dying woman, I felt a momentary shame that I had not remembered her before. On our way I ran ahead of my mother and was reaching out my hand to pick some purple plums that grew on a small bush, when I was
checked by a low "Sh!" from my mother. "Why, mother, I want to taste the plums!" I exclaimed, as I dropped my hand to my side in disappointment. "Never

plu