Transcriber's Note:
Click on the [Listen] link to hear the music and on the [MusicXML] link to download the notation. As of the date of posting, these links to external files will work only in the HTML version of this e-book.

THE MIDDLE FIVE

THE
MIDDLE FIVE

Indian Boys at School

By FRANCIS LaFLESCHE

Boston
Small, Maynard & Company
1909

Copyright, 1900, by
Small, Maynard and Company
(INCORPORATED)
——
Entered at Stationer's Hall

The University Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A.

TO
THE UNIVERSAL BOY

Contents

PREFACE

As the object of this book is to reveal the true nature and character of the Indian boy, I have chosen to write the story of my school-fellows rather than that of my other boy friends who knew only the aboriginal life. I have made this choice not because the influences of the school alter the qualities of the boys, but that they might appear under conditions and in an attire familiar to the reader. The paint, feathers, robes, and other articles that make up the dress of the Indian, are marks of savagery to the European, and he who wears them, however appropriate or significant they might be to himself, finds it difficult to lay claim to a share in common human nature. So while the school uniform did not change those who wore it, in this instance, it may help these little Indians to be judged, as are other boys, by what they say and do.

It is not my purpose to give a continued story with a hero in the following pages, but, in a series of sketches, to present the companions of my own young days to the children of the race that has become possessed of the land of my fathers.

This introduction is a genuine one, for all the boys who appear in these sketches have really lived and played a part in the incidents herein recorded. Each little actor, including the writer, made his entrance upon the stage of life in the "tee-pee" or in the dome-shaped earth lodge; for, in the years when we boys were born, only the aboriginal dwellings were in use among our people, the Omaha tribe of Indians. Like all the infants for countless generations in the line of our ancestry, we too had to pass through the cradle-board period while our bones "ripened," as the Indians say, and grew strong enough to bear the weight of our bodies. When at last our mothers gave us liberty to creep and to toddle about, we promptly used that freedom to get into all sorts of mischief as we explored the new and wonderful world in which we found ourselves.

Among my earliest recollections are the instructions wherein we were taught respect and courtesy toward our elders; to say "thank you" when receiving a gift, or when returning a borrowed article; to use the proper and conventional term of relationship when speaking to another; and never to address any one by his personal name; we were also forbidden to pass in front of persons sitting in the tent without first asking permission; and we were strictly enjoined never to stare at visitors, particularly at strangers. To us there seemed to be no end to the things we were obliged to do, and to the things we were to refrain from doing.

From the earliest years the Omaha child was trained in the grammatical use of his native tongue. No slip was allowed to pass uncorrected, and as a result there was no child-talk such as obtains among English-speaking children,—the only difference between the speech of old and young was in the pronunciation of words which the infant often failed to utter correctly, but this difficulty was soon overcome, and a boy of ten or twelve was apt to speak as good Omaha as a man of mature years.

Like the grown folk, we youngsters were fond of companionship and of talking. In making our gamesticks and in our play, we chattered incessantly of the things that occupied our minds, and we thought it a hardship when we were obliged to speak in low tones while older people were engaged in conversation. When we entered the Mission School, we experienced a greater hardship, for there we encountered a rule that prohibited the use of our own language, which rule was rigidly enforced with a hickory rod, so that the new-comer, however socially inclined, was obliged to go about like a little dummy until he had learned to express himself in English.

All the boys in our school were given English names, because their Indian names were difficult for the teachers to pronounce. Besides, the aboriginal names were considered by the missionaries as heathenish, and therefore should be obliterated. No less heathenish in their origin were the English substitutes, but the loss of their original meaning and significance through long usage had rendered them fit to continue as appellations for civilized folk. And so, in the place of Tae-noo'-ga-wa-zhe, came Philip Sheridan; in that of Wa-pah'-dae, Ulysses S. Grant; that of Koo'-we-he-ge-ra, Alexander, and so on. Our sponsors went even further back in history, and thus we had our David and Jonathan, Gideon and Isaac, and, with the flood of these new names, came Noah. It made little difference to us that we had to learn the significance of one more word as applied to ourselves, when the task before us was to make our way through an entire strange language. So we learned to call each other by our English names, and continued to do so even after we left school and had grown to manhood.

The names thus acquired by the boys are used in these sketches in preference to their own, for the reason that Indian words are not only difficult to pronounce, but are apt to sound all alike to one not familiar with the language, and the boys who figure in these pages might lose their identity and fail to stand out clearly in the mind of the reader were he obliged to continually struggle with their Omaha names.

In the talk of the boys I have striven to give a reproduction of the peculiar English spoken by them, which was composite, gathered from the imperfect comprehension of their books, the provincialisms of the teachers, and the slang and bad grammar picked up from uneducated white persons employed at the school or at the Government Agency. Oddities of speech, profanity, localisms, and slang were unknown in the Omaha language, so when such expressions fell upon the ears of these lads they innocently learned and used them without the slightest suspicion that there could be bad as well as good English.

The misconception of Indian life and character so common among the white people has been largely due to an ignorance of the Indian's language, of his mode of thought, his beliefs, his ideals, and his native institutions. Every aspect of the Indian and his manner of life has always been strange to the white man, and this strangeness has been magnified by the mists of prejudice and the conflict of interests between the two races. While these in time may disappear, no native American can ever cease to regret that the utterances of his fathers have been constantly belittled when put into English, that their thoughts have frequently been travestied and their native dignity obscured. The average interpreter has generally picked up his knowledge of English in a random fashion, for very few have ever had the advantage of a thorough education, and all have had to deal with the difficulties that attend the translator. The beauty and picturesqueness, and euphonious playfulness, or the gravity of diction which I have heard among my own people, and other tribes as well, are all but impossible to be given literally in English.

The talk of the older people, when they speak in this book, is, as well as I can translate it, that of every day use.

Most of the country now known as the State of Nebraska (the Omaha name of the river Platt, descriptive of its shallowness, width, and low banks) had for many generations been held and claimed by our people as their own, but when they ceded the greater part of this territory to the United States government, they reserved only a certain tract for their own use and home. It is upon the eastern part of this reservation that the scene of these sketches is laid, and at the time when the Omahas were living near the Missouri River in three villages, some four or five miles apart. The one farthest south was known as Ton'-won-ga-hae's village; the people were called "wood eaters" because they cut and sold wood to the settlers who lived near them. The middle one was Ish'-ka-da-be's village, and the people designated as "those who dwell in earth lodges," they having adhered to the aboriginal form of dwelling when they built their village. The one to the north and nearest the Mission was E-sta'-ma-za's village, and the people were known as "the make-believe white men," because they built their houses after the fashion of the white settlers. Furniture, such as beds, chairs, tables, bureaus, etc., were not used in any of these villages, except in a few instances, while in all of them the Indian costume, language, and social customs remained as yet unmodified.

In those days the Missouri was the only highway of commerce. Toiling slowly against the swift current, laden with supplies for the trading posts and for our Mission, came the puffing little steamboats from the "town of the Red-hair," as St. Louis was called by the Indians, in memory of the auburn locks of Governor Clark,—of Lewis and Clark fame. We children used to watch these noisy boats as they forced their way through the turbid water and made a landing by running the bow into the soft bank.

The white people speak of the country at this period as "a wilderness," as though it was an empty tract without human interest or history. To us Indians it was as clearly defined then as it is to-day; we knew the boundaries of tribal lands, those of our friends and those of our foes; we were familiar with every stream, the contour of every hill, and each peculiar feature of the landscape had its tradition. It was our home, the scene of our history, and we loved it as our country.

The Middle Five

The Middle Five

Chapter I The Mission

Leaning against the wall of a large stone building, with moccasined feet dangling from a high wooden bench on the front porch, sat a little boy crying. His buckskin suit, prettily fringed and embroidered with porcupine quills of the brightest colors, indicated the care bestowed upon him by fond parents. Boys and girls were at play around the house, making the place ring with their merry laughter as they chased each other among the trees, but the little boy sat all alone, sobbing as though his heart would break. A big boy came and sat by his side, put an arm around him, and in a kindly tone said, in Indian:

"What are you crying for? Don't cry,—I'll play with you and be your friend. I won't let the boys hurt you."

"I want my mother! I want to go home!" was all the homesick little chap could say, crying harder than ever.

"You will see your mother soon, we can go home every bathing-day, (Saturday). It is only three days to wait, so don't cry. I have to go away, but I will be back soon. Play with this dog until I come,"—putting into the hands of the little boy a wooden dog.

A bell rang, and from every direction came boys and girls, crowding and pushing one another as they entered two of the large doors of the building. The big boy came running, and grasping the little one by the hand, fairly dragged him along, saying: "Come, quick! We are going to eat."

They entered a large room filled with people. Parallel to the walls stood tables of great length, at one of which the two boys took seats. After considerable hard breathing and shuffling by the children, they suddenly became very still, every one bowed his head, then a man with gray hair and whiskers, who sat at the end of one of the tables, spoke in a low tone. He finished speaking, then followed a deafening clatter of a hundred tin plates and cups. Young women carrying great pans of steaming food moved rapidly from table to table. One of these girls came to the two boys, and put into the plate of the younger a potato. "Give him two, he's hungry," whispered the big boy to the girl.

Everything was strange to the little new-comer and he kept looking all around. The lamps that were fastened to the walls and posts, the large clock that stood ticking gloomily on a shelf, and the cupboard with its tin door perforated in a queer design were objects upon which his eyes rested with wonder.

The supper over, the boys and girls who sat on the inner side of the tables turned to face the centre of the room, and folded their arms. Then they all sang. When this was done, they dropped on their knees and the gray-haired man began to talk again. The little boy watched him for a while, then laid his head on the hard bench,—the tones of the old man grew fainter and fainter until the boy lost all consciousness of them. Suddenly there burst upon him a noise like thunder. He arose to his feet with a start, and, bewildered, he looked around. Everything seemed to be in a whirl. He took fright, ran to the door that first caught his sight, and went with a thud down to a landing, but did not lose his balance; he took another step, then fell headlong into a dreadful dark place. He screamed at the top of his voice, frightened almost into a fit. A woman picked him up and carried him in her arms up a flight of stairs, speaking to him in a language that he could not understand.

This was my first experience at the boarding school established by the Presbyterian Board of Foreign Missions for the instruction of the children of the Omaha tribe of Indians.

The Mission school, the founding of which had marked an epoch in the tribe, was located among the wooded bluffs of the Missouri on the eastern part of the reservation. The principal building was of stone, plain and substantial, and plastered inside and out. It was three stories high and had an attic. This attic was perhaps the most interesting part of the structure, for we boys were quite sure it was tenanted by ghosts, and that the devil, who figured considerably in the instruction given us, had full sway in this apartment.

There was a large square hole close to the head of the stairs that led up to the attic. This hole had the greatest terror for us; there was a constant whistling within it, and out of it came sounds like distressing moans and sighs. I remember once, when Gray-beard had sent me up to the attic for something, that I never hurried so on any other errand as I did on that one. I found the article he desired, put it under my arm, and cautiously approached the head of the stair, keeping an eye on the dark hole, then suddenly I made a dash past it, and with amazing rapidity thundered downstairs. "Lad, you will break your neck!" exclaimed Gray-beard. I told him I liked to run downstairs!

Under the attic was the boys' dormitory. The beds were placed close together, and some were wide enough for three boys. The room was large, and in the middle of it stood a post. I have reason to remember this, for one night I got up in my sleep and ran with all my might against this post, making such a noise as to awaken Gray-beard and the superintendent, who came up in great haste with candles in their hands. I was laid up for days after this exploit, but I never ran in my sleep again.

Beneath our dormitory were the parlor and the bedroom of Gray-beard, our teacher and disciplinarian. This name was not inherited by him, nor was it one of his own choosing; the boys gave it to him because his beard was iron-gray, and the Indians adopted it from the boys. In his room at night he might have heard strange noises from the cherubs in the dormitory above, in fact he came up there quite often, rod in hand, as a reminder that such sounds made sleep impossible.

Under Gray-beard's rooms was the schoolroom where we struggled with arithmetic, geography, history, and A B C, up to the Fifth Reader. This room corresponded in size to our dormitory, but it had no middle post.

The dining-hall, where on my arrival I had taken fright and stampeded head foremost into the cellar, was in the middle of the first story. It was very large and held, beside the three long tables, a big stove in the middle between two large posts. I remember these posts very well, I kept close company with one of them, on my return from a run-away expedition; and it was on this occasion that I had my first love adventure—but I must not anticipate.

The rooms on the two stories above the dining-hall were occupied, one as play-room for the girls, the others by the various employees.

On the same floor with the school-room and the dining-hall, at the north end of the building, was the chapel. Here we sat in rows on Sunday mornings, afternoons, and evenings, and on Thursday evenings, ranged on long, high, wooden benches without backs, our feet scarcely touching the floor, and listened (sometimes) to sermons which were remarkable for their length and sleep-enticing effects. I had many delightful dreams in this chapel, about Samson and his jaw-bone war club, the fight between David and Goliath, and of the adventures of Joseph the dreamer,—stories that were the delight of my boyhood. Brush, one of my dearest friends at the school, knowing my weakness, secured a seat back of mine on purpose to support me when I was in a slumberous mood. I shall never forget his goodness; he now sleeps in the cemetery just above the Mission.

The two large rooms over the chapel were occupied by our superintendent and minister. Above his apartments was the girls' dormitory, while over all stretched the haunted, ghostly attic.

There were other buildings grouped around: to the back stood the store-house and the smoke-house; out of the latter came our delicious hams and our sermons, for a part of this building was used as the minister's study. Then there was the great barn where we boys played hide-and-seek in the hay-mow; the corn-crib with its yellow wealth showing between the boards; and the dusty wheat-bins with padlocked doors. Below on the bottom were the Government saw and grist mills, where we often went to see the grinding of the Indians' grain and the large trees sawed into lumber for Agency use or for the Indians' houses. The carpenter and blacksmith shops were also down there, and a long wooden house for the occupancy of the Government employees. All of these buildings stood for the fulfilment of the solemn promises made by the "Great Father" at Washington to his "Red Children," and as a part of the price paid for thousands and thousands of acres of fine land.

Although there were high hills just back of the school, from which one could get excellent views of the surrounding country, we boys preferred to go up into the belfry on the top of the main building for our observations. We did not go often; two difficulties were in the way: the securing of permission from the superintendent, as but few boys could be trusted up there; and we must go through the haunted attic to get to the belfry. No boy during my school days ever went up there alone.

My friend Brush, being quite a favorite with the superintendent, often had permission to go, and took me with him. When we were once in the belfry, we felt safe from the annoyances of the devil and the other horrible things in the attic. The superintendent, without the asking, let Brush have a big spy-glass, which the other boys were not permitted to use, and with it we could see far beyond the river and the valley that stretched in the distance to the opposite bluffs, that were always nearly hidden in a bluish haze. Bringing the glass to a closer range, we could see below, on our side of the river, the rich fields of the Mission and of the Indians; and we used to watch the Indians and the hired men of the school at work there. Sometimes we caught sight of a steamboat far down the river coming up, trailing a long line of smoke; then, with great excitement, we would run down and tell the boys, and all of us would hasten to the highest point near the school and watch the "mystic boat" as it slowly made its way along the winding stream.

To the south of the Mission, overlooking the Missouri and a small lake, stood the highest bill for miles around. This was known by the Indians as "the hill on which Um'-pa-ton-ga (Big Elk) was buried." He was one of the greatest chiefs of the Omahas.

Before schools of any kind were known among the Omahas, Indian parents warned their boys and girls against a free association with the children of persons who did not bear a good character. "Who was that you were playing with?" a father or mother would ask. "Nobody knows the child's family,—beware of him, do not go with him, he will throw upon you the habit of lying or stealing. Go with children whose parents are respected by the people." Such advice would be given by the reputable men and women of the tribe to their children as to choosing their playfellows.

At the school we were all thrown together and left to form our own associates. The sons of chiefs and of prominent men went with the sons of the common people, regardless of social standing and character. The only distinction made was against cowardice; the boy who could not fight found it difficult to maintain the respect of his mates, and to get a place among the different "gangs" or groups of associates the boys had established among themselves. I learned this from my friend Brush, to whom I complained one day of being abused by the boys when he was not near. "You must look out for yourself now," he said. "If the boys know you won't fight, they will tease you all the time. You must fight."

So the next boy who rudely shoved me aside and knocked my hat off received a painful surprise, for my right fist came so hard against his cheekbone that he stood for a moment as though stunned. Then he moved, and I moved, and the boys standing near could hardly tell which was which until we separated, pretty well bruised. After that the boys were careful not to knock my hat off my head; if they did, they took pains to let me know that it was not intentional.

I told Brush about this set-to, and he approved of it. "That's right," he said; "fight any of them, even if you know that you're going to get licked; then they won't tease you."

My father was the principal chief of the tribe and leader of the village of the "Make-believe white-men;" he had plenty of horses, the standard of Indian wealth, yet that did not entitle me to a place in any of the different "gangs" in the school; I had to show that I was not afraid to stand up and fight. Even good-natured Brush had to bristle up at times and engage in a lively tussle, else there would have been no peace for him. Now I was wanted by the smaller "gangs" and invited by them to their places of sport; but Brush held on to me and kept me out.

Among the boys there was the "gang" of the "Big Seven" which Brush had been trying to enter; but, for some reason which I did not then understand, they would not admit him. He did not care to go into any of the "gangs" of smaller boys, of which there were quite a number. I thought the "Big Seven" did not want him, because he was too small; but later I found out there was another reason for it.

As time passed, I learned more and more of the peculiar ways of the boys at the school, of the teachers, and of my books. It was not long before I felt quite at home and independent; but Brush and I were still without a "gang."

Chapter II Brush

"Frank, you're learning fast!" said Brush one afternoon as I was laboriously writing my lesson on a slate with his help. "I'm glad; I want you to catch up with me so we can be in the same classes."

I felt proud of his praise and worked all the harder. We had gone through the alphabet swimmingly, and once, when I said it without a break, he slapped me on the shoulder and exclaimed, "That's good!" When I was able to read short sentences, I felt quite sure that I should soon take my place among the advanced pupils.

In and out of school Brush helped me along; in our play and when our work brought us together, he always managed to teach me something of the English language, and I was a willing student because he taught me in a way that made the work a pleasure. Gray-beard, not knowing what a kind and patient assistant he had in Brush, thought he had in me an exceptionally bright scholar, for I made rapid headway in learning to speak English, won several promotions, and soon found myself in the Second Reader class.

Brush was a bright fellow and quite a student. He and I sat at the same desk in the school-room, side by side at the dining-table, and we were bed-fellows. From him I learned many things he had gleaned from the superintendent's library, for he was a great reader, and the superintendent, who liked the boy, favored him in various ways, loaned him books to read, and talked with him about them.

Of all the stories he used to tell me, and he knew a great many, I liked best to hear him recount the old stories out of the Bible. He was familiar with them all, and told them in a way that delighted me, for he fitted them to my notions. He made them very real. One day he read to me a story, but I could not understand it as well as when he told it in his own simple way, so I asked him not to read them to me any more. The time for the telling of stories was at night after Gray-beard had gone downstairs to his own rooms, having warned us against loud talking.

My friend always seemed happy, yet at times, particularly on Saturdays, I noticed he would appear sober, almost melancholy. He did not go home as the rest of us did, and I wondered at this very much. He had a way of disappearing about the time I was ready to start home, so I never had a chance to invite him to my house, as I had often intended to do. I tried a number of times to bring him to speak of himself, but he would throw me off that line of talk, and my curiosity went unsatisfied for a long time.

"Say, Brush, where do you live?" I asked one afternoon as we were in the belfry. "You don't go home Saturdays like the rest of us."

"There's a man on the top of the hill near Big Elk's grave," he said evasively as he looked through the spy-glass.

I could see the man with my naked eyes as he stood on the topmost point against the clear, blue sky.

"Take the spy-glass and look at him," continued Brush, as though to put off my question.

"Do you live on the other side of that hill?" I persisted.

"Frank, I live here, I don't live anywhere else. This is the only home I have," said the boy sadly. "Do your father and mother ask you who you play with at the Mission?"

"N-o, they never did, maybe they will sometime, I don't know."

"I think they will, that's why I'm going to tell you who I am, then they will know," said Brush, seriously. After a pause he went on, "My father and mother died when I was very small, but I remember my grandfather. He was a very old man. He used to go to your father's house; maybe you have seen him, but I guess you can't remember. He was one of the chiefs, Tae-son' was his name. Once we went to Omaha to buy a lot of things, and coming home we camped just this side of the town; there he died. He was the last relative I had. Now I have no mother, no father, no sister, nothing—no home." He uttered the last word slowly as though thinking. "That's why the Big Seven—that man's gone, you take the spy-glass and look for him."

"If you have no home, why don't you go home with me?" I asked, looking through the spy-glass. "I know my father and mother would like you the same as I do."

"If I go home with you, I know I'll have a good time, but I haven't any home to ask you to. All the boys in the Big Seven do that way."

"I don't care what the Big Seven do, I want you to go home with me."

Saturday came. At breakfast I was anxious to have prayers over, Brush was to go home with me, and we anticipated much pleasure for the day.

"Don't eat much," I whispered to him; "we're going to eat again when we get home. My mother will give us something good, she always does."

After breakfast Brush went to the barn and filled the stalls with hay for the horses, which was part of the work assigned him. Then he ran up to the superintendent to report, and as soon as he came down we were off.

On the hill we were joined by two white boys, children of one of the Government employees at the mill. "Hello! Going home?" asked one of them. "We're going to the village. They say they're going to have a horse race there to-day. We want to see it."

Instead of taking the well-beaten path to the village, we all turned off into one that led directly to my father's house, and that passed by the burial-place on the bluffs. The two white boys were ahead, and when they came to a freshly made mound surrounded by a neat fence they stopped, and peered between the palings. "Pemmican!" exclaimed one of them. When Brush and I came up, we too looked in and saw on the grave a wooden bowl of pemmican. It was tempting these white boys, for they had learned to like this peculiar food.

"Jack, give me a boost?" said one of them, and soon he was over the fence filling his pockets out of the bowl. Then he offered the remainder to the other boy.

Brush and I were amazed and horrified at this action. We went straight on, taking no notice of the offer made by the boys to give us some of the stolen food. "I bet one of those boys will die before the year is gone," said Brush, turning and looking back at the irreverent little rascals, who were now tipping their heads backward and putting pinches of the meat into their mouths.

"I bet so too!" I added. "It was awful the way they did. Let's go on fast; I don't want to be with them." And we sped down the hill on a brisk run.

At the door of the house my mother met us and led us into her room. We both began to tell her about the dreadful thing the white boys had done, and expressed the belief that before the year was out one or both of them would die.

We sat down on the floor, and mother placed between us a pretty wooden bowl filled with freshly made pemmican, smiling at our childish notion that food taken after the spirits had tasted it meant death within the year. As we were eating with relish the food placed before us, my mother said, "You do not understand why the bowl of pemmican was placed on the little grave, and I must tell you. The spirit of the person buried in that grave, or the spirit of any other person dead and buried, cannot eat food; but people love their dead relatives; they remember them and long for their presence at the family gathering: it is this desire that makes them go and put a share of the food on the grave of those who have become nothing, and not the belief that the dead can return and partake of food the same as the living."

We listened with respectful attention as my mother explained to us this custom which arose from the tender longing that prompted the mourner to place on the little mound the food that might have been the share of the loved one who lay under the sod; but I am afraid we failed to grasp the meaning of her words, and clung to the commonplace idea entertained by less thoughtful persons.

In the afternoon there was a general movement throughout the village, men, singly and in groups, walked with stately tread toward the edge of the bluff back of my father's house. Women, too, no less dignified, made their way in the same direction, followed by their grown-up daughters dressed in their gayest attire, their ornaments glinting in the sun. Little boys and girls chased each other hither and thither as they drifted that way, and soon there was a great gathering of people, all bent upon enjoying the excitement of the race. Brush and I mingled with the boys, and took part in their lively games, as preparations were going on for the sport of the day.

My father was in his corral trying to lasso a young horse to put on the track, a spirited little animal with bald face and large white spots on his sides. When, with some difficulty, he was caught and bridled, he stood pawing the ground, impatient to go, tossing up his head from time to time and moving his ears excitedly. My father led him up to where the people were gathered; other men had already brought their horses there. Boys about Brush's size, lithe of figure, stood by the racers ready to mount when it was time to start.

My father looked around, and finally his eyes rested upon Brush. "Boy, can you ride?" he asked.

"I can," was the prompt answer.

My breath was fairly taken away at this reply. I did not know that Brush could ride well enough to mount a running horse at a race.

"I want you to ride my horse in this race," said my father.

"All right," replied the lad, taking off his school uniform. In a moment he was ready, stripped naked, with only a breech cloth.

Taking the reins and grasping the horse by the mane, Brush attempted to spring on his back, but the animal, all excited, trotted round and round. Father seized him by the bit, Brush lifted his right foot, father caught it, and in a twinkling the boy was on the horse. The mount was superb; the fiery creature sprang forward at a brisk gallop, but was checked by a skilled hand.

"Give him a canter a short distance; he'll quiet down," said father. Brush did so and soon returned, the horse prancing about most gracefully.

The course was on the bottom and as smooth as a floor. The twelve horses which were to run were taken to the farther end, about a mile away, and with them went the two men who were to manage the race. When the horses reached the starting point, they were ranged in line, and their riders were told to gallop them slowly and evenly to a point marked on the course. The two men rode along to see that the line was kept fairly; when the marked place was reached, the men shouted, "Ah—hu!" then every boy put his horse on the run.

To us on the hill, the horses looked like small specks in the distance; but, by the sudden rising of a cloud of dust, we knew when the signal was given to run. For a time they were too far away for us to distinguish those in the lead; but, as the horses came nearer, we began to recognize them; two in the front were well ahead, neck and neck.

"It's the roan!" shouted a tall man.

"No, it's the bald face!" cried another.

"Hurrah! Brush is in the lead!" yelled the freckled-faced white boy, swinging his ragged hat in the air as he ran up to where I was standing. "Gee whiz! look at him! look at him! My! I wish I could ride like that!"

Brush leaned forward a little, loosened the reins a bit; the horse gathered fresh speed and gained a length. The boy on the roan leaned forward too, and, raising his right arm, brought down his whip on the flank, the animal bravely sprang forward, but his strength was exhausted, he could do no more. On came the bald face, and reached the goal nearly three lengths ahead.

The men shouted themselves hoarse, and the women, with long-drawn breaths, praised the plucky little rider. Brush trotted up to my father, and delivered the horse.

"Who are you, little brother?" asked father.

For a moment Brush looked embarrassed, then lifting his eyes to father's face answered, "I am Tae-son's grandson and Sas-su's friend."

"Your grandfather was my friend," said my father, looking kindly at the lad; "I am glad you like the company of my boy. You must always come with him on his visits home from the House of Teaching."

Brush was touched by this recognition, and the tears started to his eyes. Seeing this, I intercepted the white boys who were running toward him. When I thought Brush had had time to master his feelings, I took the two boys to him, and they put their arms around him exclaiming, "Brush, that was grand!"

As this was his first visit to my home Brush did not feel quite easy, and long before the usual hour for my returning to the Mission, he suggested our going back. When we entered the school yard, which was deserted, for the boys and girls had not yet returned, we noticed a woman at the front gate holding a horse by a lariat and close beside her stood a colt mounted by two boys. She called to us and said she wanted to see the superintendent. Brush went to find him, and soon returned with that official.

"Tell the White-chest," said the woman to Brush, "that I have brought my two boys to stay here. They wanted to come, so I have brought them. Their father is dead; they have been my only comfort; but they want to learn to write. I hope he will be kind to them."

"They are bright-looking boys," said the superintendent, shaking hands with the mother. "I will take good care of them."

The boys dismounted, and the woman prepared to go. She kissed each of the little fellows and wiped a tear from her eyes.

"Don't cry, mother," said the older boy; "we'll be all right. We will come home often to see you."

We watched the mother as she went down the hill, leading her horse and the colt, until she disappeared at a turn on the bottom.

"Well, Brush, here's a job for you and Frank," said the superintendent. "Take these boys to the dormitory and give them a good wash, then bring them to the store-room, and I will see if I can fit them each with a suit of clothes."

We did as we were told, and while the superintendent was busy fitting the boys, Brush and I went into a large room and selected a bedstead for them. We put it together alongside of our bed, and began to cord it.

"Brush, why do the Omahas call the missionaries 'White-chests'?" I asked, as I pressed the cord from the foot to the head of the bed to tighten it.

"It's because the men wear stiff white shirts, and they show on their chests, that's why," he answered, throwing the mattress on the bed.

Brush and I soon became much attached to Lester and Warren, as the new-comers were named, and we lost no time in helping them along in their English. By our assistance and persistent use of the language with them, the two boys made rapid progress, and it was not long before they were chattering in broken English, like the rest of us.

Chapter III Edwin

In one of the little houses of the village of the "Make-believe White-men" there sat on the floor of the room, which served as parlor, kitchen, dining, and bedroom, a man and a woman. There was but one window to the room, and, the weather being warm, the door stood wide open to let in more light for the workers within. The man was cutting with great care a large piece of moistened rawhide into narrow strips to be braided for a long lariat, and from time to time he softly whistled a tune that was running through his head. Directly under the window sat the woman; around her were strewn little workbags, awls, bits of deer-skin, and shreds of sinew. Patiently she worked, pushing the point of the sharp awl through the edges of the leggings she was making, and drawing the finely twisted sinew thread through the perforation.

"We are the only ones in the village who haven't sent any children to the House of Teaching," said the woman, without looking up from her sewing, continuing a conversation the two were having. "Ma-wa'-da-ne has sent his boy, the only one he has. The man is lame, you know, and needs help; yet he wanted the boy to go, because he thinks some good will come of it to the child in the future. Then look at your friend E-sta'-ma-za, a man of great knowledge and foresight, he has sent his only boy and three daughters. There must be some good in it; we ought to send one of our boys at least."

The man took up a round stone and whetted his knife; then, as he felt the edge with his thumb, he replied, "I don't want the little one to go. Why don't you send the two big boys; they're hardly ever home anyway, and they might as well be at the house of the White-chests as anywhere else. What would the house be without the little one? We'd be very lonely, at least I'd be."

"I am just as fond of him as you are, and would miss him just as much; but he is the brightest of them all," said the woman, rising and stirring something that was boiling and sputtering in a pot on the stove. "He could learn faster than either of the older boys," she continued. "Before many years have gone, our dealings will be mostly with the white people who are coming to mingle with us; and, to have relations with them of any kind, some of us must learn their language and familiarize ourselves with their customs. That is what these men who send their children to the White-chests are looking forward to, and they love their boys as much as we do ours."

There was silence for some moments. The man fastened the ends of the rawhide strips to a peg in the floor and began to braid them. At length he said, "Where is the boy; he hasn't been in all the morning. When do you want him to go?"

"He might as well go now, to-day, the sooner the better. Of course he 's down by the creek with his little bow and arrows."

"Well, wife, I wish you would go and call him. I don't want these strips to dry on me while I am braiding them."

The woman went to the banks of the little stream that ran by the village, and called in a shrill voice, "Oo-ma'-a-be! Oo-ma'-a-be!"

"I'm coming!" shouted a bareheaded, black-eyed little boy, just as he shot a blue-joint grass arrow at a frog that had poked his head above the surface of the water to see what was going on in the outer world. Forgetting the call, the lad went stealthily on up the stream with another arrow strung, looking for other frogs that might be hunting for flies or mosquitoes, or enjoying the kisses of the warm sunshine in some pleasant nook.

"What can the boy be doing?" said the woman to herself, then she called again, this time emphasizing the first syllable of the name to indicate that she was losing patience, "Oo'-ma-a-be!"

With reluctant steps the boy made his way toward his mother, peering as he went into the tall grass to see if a grasshopper or any other creature might be exposing itself to the arrows of a sport-loving lad.

"Why did you not come when I first called you?" asked the woman as she took the child by the hand and led him with quickened steps toward the little house.

As the mother and son entered, the father looked up with a pleasant smile, and addressing the boy said, "Your mother went to call you because she wants us to go to the house of the White-chests, where you are to stay and learn to write. Now wash your hands and face, and make yourself look nice, so they will be pleased with you; then we will go."

The mother had the water ready, and began scrubbing the face and neck of the lad, while the candidate for scholarship was pressing his lips tightly together and squinting his eyes to exclude the soap that persisted in getting into them. Then followed the brushing of the hair, which was equally irksome to the boy, and he unconsciously leaned farther and farther away until he was pulled to again by the fond parent.

When both face and hair shone, the mother kissed her boy and announced to her husband that the child was ready. The father rose to go with him, but the boy held back.

"What is it?" asked the father; "are you not willing to go?"

"I am willing to go," answered Oo-ma'-a-be, "but I want to put on my embroidered moccasins and leggings and my little buffalo robe."

The husband and wife looked at each other smiling, and let the youngster have his own way, so he was decked out in his gorgeous costume. He folded himself up in his robe, which was beautifully ornamented with porcupine quills of exquisite colors, he twisted his body and neck to see if he looked well, then said he was ready to go.

In the school-room a class of big boys and girls were learning to read in concert:—

"The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but he had fled."

Again and again the teacher made them read the lines, but each time some one would either lag behind or read faster than the others. While this was going on I was busy with my spelling lesson, as my class came after the one now hard at work with the boy "on the burning deck."

There was a click; I raised my eyes and looked toward the door; it slowly opened, then a tall man and a boy silently entered. I recognized them at once; the man was a friend of my father and the lad one of my playmates on my weekly visits home. The class on the floor was dismissed with a lecture on reading, and Gray-beard turned to call, "Next class," when he discovered the man and boy sitting on a bench near the door.

"How do you do, Wa-hon'-e-ga?" said Gray-beard, approaching the Indian with outstretched hand.

"Ka-gae'-ha!" (Friend) responded the Indian, his face brightening. Then in a low tone he called me to him and said, "I have brought your grandfather here to stay with you. Be as good to each other as you have always been, and try to learn the language of the White-chests."

The boy was a distant relative, and, following the peculiar system of kinship among the Indians, there was no impropriety in my addressing him as my grandfather, although we preferred to call each other friend.

"What does Wa-hon'-e-ga want?" asked Gray-beard, putting his hand on my shoulder.

"My friend," replied the Indian, looking with a kindly smile into the face of the teacher, "my wife wishes her son, this boy, to learn to speak the language of the Big-knives, [English] so I have come with him. We have brought him up with great care, and I think he will give you no trouble."

"Tell him," said Gray-beard, "I am very glad he has brought the boy, and we will do our best for him."

The Indian turned and with silent dignity left the room.

"Now, children," said Gray-beard, taking out the school register and looking at us, "we have a new boy here, and we must select a good name for him; what have you to suggest?"

We promptly called him Edwin M. Stanton, and he was registered by that name.

Brush and I were detailed to take Edwin to the store-room and fit him with a new suit of clothes. When he was dressed; we tied up his fine Indian costume in a neat bundle to be returned to his father.

At the supper-table Edwin and I sat together. I showed him how to bow his head when the blessing was asked, and to turn his plate. He silently followed my whispered instructions, and was very quiet while supper was going on, but during the religious exercises which followed, when we dropped on our knees, he became very anxious to know why we did so. He shuffled a good deal in his position, and after a while stood up and looked around. I pulled him down, and he demanded out loud, "What are we hiding for? This is the way we do when we are hiding in the grass."

I gave him a good dig in the ribs. "That hurts!" he cried. I whispered to him to be quiet, but before long he was fidgeting again. Just as the superintendent lowered his voice at an earnest passage in his prayer Edwin spoke out again, in a louder tone than before, "I've got a dog; he can catch rabbits!"

Gray-beard lifted his head, and the superintendent paused in his fervent appeal and looked toward us; he rapped with his knuckles on the table, and said, in a severe tone, "Boys, you must be silent and listen when I pray."

I whispered to Edwin that he must keep still until we got out.

As we were going to bed that night Edwin said, "Ka-gae'-ha [Friend], let you and me sleep together; I don't want to sleep with any one else."

Lester too wanted to sleep with me; so it was arranged among us that Brush and Warren should have the double bed, and Edwin, Lester, and I were to have the wide bed for three.

After we had settled down, Edwin began talking, "When we finished eating," he said, "we turned around and the old man began to talk, then you all sang. I like to hear you sing; you've got a good voice. Then we went down on our knees, just as though we were hiding in the grass; what did we do that for? The old man talked a long time; was he telling a story? I know a great many of them; I know one about a dog. He was a man, but he was turned into a dog. I'll tell it to you."

I didn't say anything, so Edwin began:

"Far back in the earliest times there dwelt in a little village a man and his wife. They had only one child living, a son whom they loved to adoration. He was so handsome a youth that whenever he walked through the village all eyes were turned upon him with admiration. One day he asked his mother to make him a separate tent. When it was done he went into it, and there spent four days and nights in solitude, neither eating nor drinking. Then he came out and spoke to his father and mother and said, "I am going away to be gone a long time, perhaps never to return. I go to meet the White-swan, the magician who sent my brothers to the abode of shadows, and, in conflict, with magic opposing his magic, I will destroy him or die as my brothers have died." The father and mother, remembering the fate of their other children, wept and pleaded with their son not to leave them, but he was determined to go.

The young man travelled many days, when one morning he beheld a maiden sitting on the brow of a hill. He went to her and asked why she sat there all alone. Without lifting her eyes, modesty forbidding her to return his gaze, the maiden replied, "I go to marry Hin-hpe'-ah-gre." The youth was seized with fear lest the young woman might be the White-swan transformed to beguile him; but being struck by her maidenly bearing, and becoming enamoured of her beauty, he turned aside from suspicion and permitted himself to be persuaded that the fair creature before him was in reality one of his own kind. And so he spoke and said, "I am he, Hin-hpe'-ah-gre, the man whom you seek to follow." In reply the maiden said, "It makes my heart throb with delight to meet and to see with my own eyes the man I am to marry. Sit down and rest your head in my lap, and when the weariness of travel has left you, I shall follow you wherever you may lead." Joy filling the heart of the youth, and no longer troubled with misgivings, he laid his head upon the lap of the maiden and soon fell fast asleep.

"Tha! Tha!" exclaimed the woman, using a word of magic, and four times, in quick succession, she pulled the ears of the young man. He awoke with a start and attempted to rise, but a transformation had taken place, instead of a man standing upright, he found himself to be a four-footed beast. His body had changed, but his reason was still that of a man. He turned to see his companion, and lo! he beheld, not the beautiful maiden in whose lap he had fallen asleep, but one who looked down upon him with contempt, and whom he knew to be the White-swan. The thought that he had been outwitted came to the young man like a flash, and as swiftly his magic word returned to his mind. He tried to utter it, but he only yelped and gave a dismal howl like that of a dog. A cringing, mangy, lop-eared dog, he now followed the White-swan and—Are you asleep?"

I was almost asleep, so I did not answer him, then he became silent. When I awoke Edwin was gone; I called him but he did not answer. Brush and I went downstairs and called softly in the school-room, but the boy was not there, then we went to the large door of the hall and found it unbolted. We returned to the dormitory and went to bed, and I soon fell asleep again.

Toward morning I was awakened by strange sounds on the stairs leading up to our dormitory. I recognized the footsteps of a human being, but there were other footsteps that were like those of a four-footed beast. They approached my bed; they came near, and a voice said in Indian in a loud whisper, "Lie down, lie down!"

"Is it you, Oo-ma'-a-be?" I asked.

"Yes, I've been after my dog," he answered, getting into bed with his clothes on.

"Get up and undress; you can't sleep with your clothes on! What did you go after the dog for?"

"I wanted you to see him, and I thought we'd keep him here. He is a fine dog; he can swim too!"

"But were you not afraid? It was dark."

"I forgot all about being afraid, and I went right by that big grave too,—the one they say a ghost comes out of and chases people. I ran, though, all the way to my house. The dog was lying near the door; he was so glad to see me he almost knocked me down."

It was nearly morning, and we went right off to sleep. Suddenly we were aroused by a furious barking. Brush, Edwin, and I sprang out of bed, and rushed for the dog that with legs spread was defending the top of the stairs.

"Boys, what have you up there?" called Gray-beard from the foot.

"Edwin went after his dog last night," answered Brush. "He wants to keep it here."

"He does, eh! Will it bite?"

"No, it won't bite; you can come up."

Chapter IV Little Bob

The afternoon session was over; Gray-beard tapped his bell; we put away our books, folded our arms, and when there was silence the teacher spoke: "Frank will remain here until he finishes correctly the sum he is working on. He has neglected his arithmetic lesson during school hours, so he will have to do the work after school."

Such punishment had not happened to me before. It had frequently come to other scholars, and I had felt sorry for them; but now the disgrace had fallen on me, and I felt it keenly.

Gray-beard led the song about "The Little Brown Church in the Wild Wood," and the whole school sang; but just then I did not care for brown churches or churches of any other color, so my voice did not mingle with that of the other pupils. Then they sang "Lord dismiss us," but as I was not dismissed I did not join in the singing of that familiar hymn.

Brush, Edwin, and the rest of my companions lingered awhile in the school-room to keep me company; but as they had work to do they could not stay long, so I was left alone to struggle with a lot of ugly fractions. My thoughts ran in every direction, off to my home, to the boys at play, and anywhere but on my task. I made a desperate effort to bring myself around to the problem that held me a prisoner by keeping a steady gaze into the deep blue sky through the open window, and then slowly the solution of that detestable sum came to my mind, and I had it. I put it on my slate, compared it with the answer left me by Gray-beard, found it correct, and my work was done.

I arose, put my books away, and stood near the teacher's desk wondering what to do next, when all of a sudden the door burst open and in rushed a little boy, crying. He was without his hat, his coat unbuttoned, and shoestrings untied. Following swiftly on the little chap came a large boy who, for some reason, was angered at the fleeing lad, and was now pursuing to punish him. The little boy ran around the stove, then toward me and got behind me. The big boy pushed on in his vengeful pursuit, and reached to grasp the object of his anger when I struck at him with my fist. The blow fell on his forehead, he stood for a moment stunned; then he sprang at me; we dealt each other blow after blow, and in our mad charges we knocked over benches and desks. How it happened I do not know, for in my excitement I could not tell where I struck him, or where he struck me, but suddenly my antagonist put his hands to his stomach, doubled over and could not breathe. I became frightened. At length, with a succession of hiccoughs, the boy recovered his breath, picked up his hat, and went out.

I straightened out the benches and desks that we had knocked over, and then sat down to cool off. When I had rested, I called to the round-headed little chap who stood trembling in the corner holding up his trousers, for in his attempts to escape he had lost the buttons to his pants, "What did you do to that boy; what did he want to hit you for?"

"I didn't do nothin'," he answered, hitching up his garments as he came toward me.

"What's your name?"

"Robert Brown."

"Where you live?"

"In your village, in that little house near Ou-ni-ja-bi's."

"That's Ne-ma-ha's house."

"Yes, that's my father."

And so it was the son of that man for whom I was all bruised up.

Ne-ma-ha was the poorest man in my father's village, and had no recognition among the prominent men of the tribe, although he had been the priest or hereditary keeper of the sacred tent of war. It was only by the performance of valorous deeds that men won honors in the tribe; but this man had no ambition to win such honors. As a hunter he was also a total failure, consequently his worldly possessions were not such as could give him distinction. Like his brother, who was struck by lightning, he deserted his sacred charge through craven superstitious fear, and, having lost his priestly position, he had become a useless member of the tribe.

"What's your Omaha name?" I asked, as I pinned his trousers to his suspenders with sharp sticks and nails.

"They call me Hae-th'na'-ta," he replied, wiping his face with the end of his coat sleeve.

The youngster belonged to the Elk band of the tribe, hence the boy's name, the English translation of which is, horns forked, meaning the forked-horned elk. How he came by his English name I do not know.

From this time on the lad was always near me, and gradually became my devoted follower. Although at first I did not care for him much, he finally won my friendship by his faithfulness and good nature. He always assisted me as far as his strength would permit in the work assigned me about the school; thus it was that Little Bob, as he was familiarly known, became a satellite to the group to which I belonged, and so safe from the attacks of the other boys.

Brush, Edwin, Warren, Lester, and I were now recognized by all the boys of the school as a "gang," and were spoken of as "the Middle Five." We had fallen into this close companionship without any formal arrangement, and we were regarded as the strongest group between the Big Seven and the other "gangs."

Chapter V Warren

Brush was a genius as a whittler. He had only one tool, and that was a rusty jack-knife with a single broken blade, and that blade was kept sharp almost to the keenness of a razor. He would take a shapeless piece of wood, out here, out there, scrape at one place, then at another, and go through a series of twists and turns of his strong, deft hands, and at last, with a triumphant smile, hold up to view a wooden horse, buffalo, or some other animal. He had just now finished a little plough which he had been carving for some time, and we, the Middle five, sat in the shade of a tree noisily discussing the accuracy of the work.

"Brush, that's pretty good, it's just like the ploughs I've seen," I remarked as I passed the toy to Edwin.

"'Tain't good," said Edwin, after he had examined it a while. "I think the handles are too straight."

"This ought to be kind of crooked, come down like this," put in Lester, indicating with his finger the outline of the beam as it should have been, according to his notion.

Our heads were close together looking at the plough, when a sudden consciousness as of the presence of something disagreeable stole upon us. A sound like the snapping of a twig made us all look up, and there stood Jim, a big boy, one of the worst that ever entered our school, and who had been excluded from all the "gangs" on account of his vicious, meddlesome disposition. With a contemptuous grin, he passed his eyes from one boy to the other, as though to discern the character of each one. When this unpleasant stare fell upon Warren, he bristled up, gave back a defiant look, and kept it steadily upon the unwelcome visitor. Without relaxing the mirthless smile, so characteristic of him, Jim addressed the boy, "Warren, I just come from the spring, where a lot of boys was talking. I heard Gid say that he could lick you. I told him I'd come and tell you what he said. Then he says, 'I don't care, I ain't 'fraid of him!'"

"You go and tell Gid," said Warren, springing to his feet, "I can lick two like him, and I'll show him any time he wants me to."

The mischief-maker had read well the character of Warren, and had won from him the expected reply.

We resumed our examination of the plough thinking that our interview with the tale-bearer had ended. Jim thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked uneasily about; he came to where little Bob was sitting, and, pulling out a warty hand, he pointed his finger at the boy's face, making a hissing sound between his teeth. Jim never passed by a chance to tease a smaller boy. Bob put his hands to his face and began crying. We all rose to our feet; Edwin moved forward in a threatening attitude, and said, "Jim, you let that boy alone. What you want to tease him for?"

Jim turned away, looked up into a tree, threw a stone at a bird, and then slowly sauntered off.

We sat down again to resume our talk about Brush's little plough, but our minds seemed to turn in another direction.

"I don't want Warren to fight Gideon," said Edwin; "he's a bad fellow, that Gideon is. He don't fight fair."

"But he can't back out," spoke up Lester, "and I don't want him to. I don't want the rest of the boys to think he's 'fraid."

"Warren's got to fight Gid," exclaimed Brush. "If he only kept quiet and didn't say anything when Jim told him what Gid said, it would be all right and no fight; but now everybody knows what Warren said, and he can't back out without the boys thinking he's a coward. We will see that Gid fights fair, and, if he don't, we will thrash his whole 'gang.' Warren can use his arms and fists all right; but he can't wrestle very good. Frank, you'd better show him some of those new holds."

Warren and I took several rounds in which I showed him a number of new tricks I had learned from a good wrestler. There was quite an important one of which he was ignorant; I gave him some lessons in that; then we sat down to talk over the challenge again with the rest of the boys.

"I think Warren can throw Gid right easy," I said; "if he can remember that waist and chin trick, and the way to break it, he can down Gid every time."

"Remember that!" warned Lester, looking at his brother. "If Gid plays that waist and chin trick, you do just what Frank showed you to do to break it."

While we were talking, we heard the slapping of bare feet upon the hard ground, and soon a boy appeared before us, imitating the actions of a spirited horse. "Whoa'p! Whoa'p!" he called repeatedly, as with loud snorts the imaginary steed reared and plunged about; finally the excited animal came to a standstill. Looking at Warren, the boy said, "Gid told me to come and tell you, he will meet you down below the barn, at the east gate, right after school this afternoon. He told me to tell you again he can lick you good."

After some prancing about, the boy ran off, clapping his hips with his hands to imitate the sound of galloping hoofs.

Gideon had accepted Warren's challenge, and we had no misgivings as to the outcome, for we had every confidence in Warren's courage and strength. What concerned us most was Jim's meddling with us and the means by which we could prevent his farther interference with our peace. He had made trouble with other "gangs" just in this way. We were still discussing this matter when the school-bell rang, and we went to the house together.

The boys who had already taken their seats looked up at us as we entered the school-room, then they turned their glances upon Gideon to see how he would behave. The two boys, Gideon and Warren, stared at each other defiantly; the rest saw there was no courage lacking in either, and they expected a lively battle between the two. Jim pretended to be studying; but we knew that he was closely watching the victims of his machinations to see how they would act. Jim never studied; he was always at the foot of his class, and boys younger than he were far in advance of him.

At last the monotonous recitations came to an end. We sang a song about "Pretty little zephyrs," then Gray-beard closed the school with the usual religious exercises.

The boys gathered in groups and walked down to the place designated for the combat. We followed slowly, as we wanted time to give all the instructions necessary to Warren. A large ring had been formed by the boys, and Gid was already in the centre with his coat off and his sleeves rolled up. Jim glanced at us as though impatient for our coming. As we neared the ring, some one said, in a voice loud enough for us to hear, "They're not coming very fast. I guess they're 'fraid!"

Brush stepped hastily forward and asked, "Who said we're afraid? Whoever said it, let him come out here and I'll show him whether we're afraid or not!"

No one answered. There were few boys in the school who would without fear accept a challenge from Brush.

A place was cleared for us, and Warren, after handing me his coat, entered the ring. The two boys approached each other and stopped within a few feet.

"Did you tell Jim you could lick me?" asked Warren, looking his opponent square in the eye.

"Yes. And I can do it too," was the bold reply.

"You can't do it!" exclaimed Warren, striking Gideon in the chest.

Then followed an exciting scene. Gideon rushed at Warren, and aimed blow after blow at his face, but our boy skilfully parried each attack. Round and round within the ring the two boys carried on their strife, neither one prevailing. For a while no serious blows were dealt, finally, in an unguarded moment Warren received a hard thrust in the left side which made him gasp; whereat Gid's gang shouted in chorus, "Choo-ie!" (An exultant exclamation in Omaha.) After this success Gideon grew reckless and struck wildly, and Warren was a little too anxious to put in a good hit before the proper moment. Gid made another effort at his antagonist's ribs, but the blow fell short; then Warren made a lunge at Gid's face; he dodged, but not quickly enough to save his ear from a bad scraping from Warren's knuckles. "Choo-ie!" cried Lester and the rest of us at this success; but Gid's next movement threw us into dismay, he had suddenly seized Warren around the waist while his arms were uplifted. Gid put his chin against Warren's chest and began pulling in his back. Warren tried to twist Gid's neck; but there was no use in that, Warren was slowly giving way. If he should fall the battle would be won by Gideon.

"Put your arms under his and push!" I said to Warren in an undertone. I couldn't help doing it.

Isaac, a blustering little chap and one of Gid's "gang" overheard me; stepping forward and pointing his finger at me, he angrily exclaimed, "Frank, you know that ain't fair, we don't do that way."

"You do worse than that," I retorted. "The whole four of you jumped on me in the school-room; that wasn't fair, but I licked you! Wait till Warren and Gid get through, then I'll see you!"

Warren had heard my words, and acted on them at once, and so released himself from Gideon's dangerous grasp. Then they went to sparring again. In making a thrust Warren stumbled on a round stone and fell on one knee, before he could rise Gid put in a blow that cut Warren's under lip. "Choo-ie!" exclaimed the friends of Gid. It seemed for a moment as though the victory would be against us. The struggle now became desperate. Gid was blowing hard, but there was still considerable reserve of strength in Warren. Gid repeatedly tried to grasp his antagonist's waist, but was every time cleverly brought about again to fists.

Warren's shirt front was bloody and his short hair stood straight up, giving him a frightful aspect. Gid's thrusts and parries now grew visibly weaker, but he showed no signs of yielding. He lowered his fists to give an under cut, thus leaving his face unguarded, quick as a flash Warren's right arm shot out, and with a sickening thud his fist landed square on Gid's nose. The blood spurted; the boy was stunned, and, before he could recover, he received another blow on the eye.

The fight was ended, and Gid's friends dragged him away more dead than alive.

Warren came to us smiling as widely as his swollen lip would permit.

"You did first rate, old boy!" said Brush, slapping Warren's back.

"He'll never want to fight you again," added Lester.

I helped Warren to put on his coat, then I looked around to see where Edwin was. I saw him standing before Jim, who was watching us with his wicked grin. They both spoke, but I could not hear them for the noise of the talk around me. Suddenly Edwin's long arm darted out, his fist came square on Jim's cheek with a resounding whack. Jim's face became livid, and the spot upon which the blow fell twitched convulsively. When the natural color returned to his face, Jim deliberately pulled off his coat; he was going to fight Edwin. It was an uneven match; Jim stood a head taller and was heavier than Edwin.

"What's the matter?" asked Brush, as he came up; "what are you going to do?"

"We're going to fight," replied Edwin; "I hit him because he made that trouble."

"Jim," said Brush, stepping forward and rolling up his sleeves, "I don't think it would be unfair for two of us to fight you. You are bigger than any of us, so I am going to help Edwin to thrash you. You've been making mischief for others, now it's going to come to you."

The boys gathered around the three to see another fight, but were disappointed. Jim made no further demonstration, but stood looking at the two boys; at last he muttered something to himself, and, picking up his coat, pushed his way out of the crowd.

All the boys pointed their fingers at Jim, and shouted, "Ah, coward!" Jim turned his head and looked at them sulkily, but went on, and no one cared to follow him.

Chapter VI Lester

The hands of the little clock on Gray-beard's desk indicated the hour of two. The midsummer's sun hurled its rays with unrelenting force to the earth, and the wind, as though consenting to the attack, withheld its refreshing breezes. All the windows of our school-room were thrown wide open, and the hum of busy insects and the occasional cry of a bird were the only sounds that relieved the monotonous stillness outside.

A class, with Warren at the head, was on the floor. The girl at the foot was reading in a tone that made it difficult to resist the drowsiness that attacked every one in the room. She came to a hard word, and, according to our custom, she spelled it. Gray-beard, who was sitting with eyes shut, pronounced it for her through a suppressed yawn. A few more words brought her to the end of the paragraph.

A long pause followed; Warren stood with book uplifted, but was gazing intently on something outside. The teacher, recovering from an overbalancing nod, opened his eyes slowly, and lazily called, "Warren!" The boy did not stir. Brush and I looked up from our desk, and shuffled our feet to attract his attention. "Warren!" again called Gray-beard, in a louder tone. Still there was no response.

Brush tore a fly-leaf out of his book, rolled it hastily into a ball, and threw it at Warren's head, but missed it.

Gray-beard turned in his chair, his eyes rested upon the boy, who was still looking fixedly out of the window. Then he rose, stepped softly up to Warren, seized him by the shoulders and shook him violently, saying, "Are you asleep?"

"Swarming!" rang out the last word of the sentence which Warren was making a desperate effort to utter.

Gray-beard, following the eyes of the lad, looked out of the window, "Quick, boys, to the dining-room, take anything you can make a noise with!" he exclaimed, as he sprang to the door, threw it open with a bang and disappeared.

We leaped over desks, and tumbled over each other as we rushed with impetuous haste to the dining-room. Brush caught up an enormous tin pan, Edwin a milk pail, and I the school triangle; the rest of the boys took tin pans and plates, or whatever they could lay their hands on, and we all ran out into the yard. Warren was already following the humming black cloud, ringing the school-bell with all his might. We caught up with him, and began beating on the tin pans with our knuckles, keeping up a constant yelling like a lot of savages. The noise we made was enough to drive the bees and ourselves insane. It was bedlam let loose. On we went through the barnyard, up the hill, and into the woods, closely following the flying black mass. Three boys carrying small mirrors kept throwing flashes of light into the swarm.

The bees made a straight line for a tall oak, hovered over the end of a high branch, and then settled on it. We gathered around the tree, and continued our unearthly noise until Gray-beard, with a box and a saw on his shoulder, and a coil of rope on his arm, came up puffing and all in a perspiration.