Hardly had she finished speaking before I was off like the wind. On the ground by a fire sat Ga-imʻ-ba-zhe and the boys, all busy making game sticks, the Indian name of which we Mission boys translated into English as “bone slides.” These were made out of willow saplings. After cutting the stick the proper length, the bark was removed, and a narrow strip of it wound around the peeled stick, which was then held over the blaze of the fire until the exposed part was scorched. When the binding was removed, the game-stick presented a mottled appearance, something like a snake.
The brown bodies of these partly nude little savages glistened against the sun as they worked, while the breezes played with their black totemic locks. They were not aware of my approach until I pitched a corncob into their midst, when they all threw up their heads to see who was coming.
“Ho! Little White-chest!” exclaimed Ga-imʻ-ba-zhe. “Have you come home?”
“Yes, I have come home,” I replied; “but I don’t want you to call me White-chest.”
“Sit down,” said one of the little brownies. “When we have done, we will give you some, then you can play with us.”
When the sticks were finished, I was given five or six of them. The tallest boy led the game. He grasped the small end of the game-stick with his right hand, bracing the top with a finger, then he took two or three quick sidelong steps and threw the stick against the ground with all the force he could command; it bounded up and shot through the air like an arrow. The next boy threw one of his sticks in the same manner, and from the same place. All the others played, each in his turn. Then one of the boys shouted, “Your turn, little White-chest. Throw hard!”
I was familiar with the game, and by practice had acquired some skill in throwing the sticks. I selected one that seemed to have the proper weight and feeling, took the usual position, and crouching almost to the earth, I threw my stick with all the force that I could muster. We watched its flight until it touched the ground and slid along, far beyond any stick that had been thrown.
“Woo-hoo!” exclaimed the boys, “he has beaten us all; he’s won all our sticks!”
“Kill him! kill him! He’s nothing but a thieving Winnebago!” This cry came from the west end of the village, not far from where we were playing. Startled by the angry words, we paused in our sport, and looked in that direction. A crowd began to gather and move along the path that led out of the village.
“What are they doing? Let’s go and see,” cried Ga-imʻ-ba-zhe.
We all rushed forward on a keen run, and reached the crowd; there we saw a lad, a little larger than we were, struggling to get away from a swarm of boys and young men who were throwing stones and sticks at him. He was a pitiful object, and why they should abuse him so was more than we could understand. His legs and feet were bare; he carried on his arm something that resembled a worn-out blanket, and in his hand he held tightly a piece of bread. He belonged to the Winnebago tribe, against whom at that time there was much prejudice among the Omahas. Mud was thrown at him; he was pushed and jostled by the crowd, and some persons kicked him. Slowly the boy retreated, at times stopping to look with pleading eyes at his merciless persecutors. When he started to run, someone threw a stick of wood before him; he struck his foot against it and fell; then the crowd laughed.
“They are doing wrong!” exclaimed Ga-imʻ-ba-zhe. “They ought not to do that!”
“I think so, too,” I added; “but what can we do?”
Just then I felt a tug at my sleeve. I turned to see who it was, and there stood the boy that did errands for my father. “Your father wants you to come home,” he said.
I was a little troubled at this, for the boy spoke in a frightened tone. At that moment a man came up and cried in a loud voice:
“You are commanded to cease molesting the boy!”
Recognizing the speaker as a messenger coming from the chief, the rabble dispersed in groups, like angry wolves.
My mind was uneasy as I went toward home, and I felt guilty, though I could not understand why. As I entered the house I was ushered into my father’s presence. He was talking earnestly to a number of men who sat on the floor smoking a pipe which they passed from hand to hand. Among them I recognized Ka-heʻ-num-ba (the father of Ga-imʻ-ba-zhe), Te-oʻ-ke-ha, Duʻ-ba-mo-ne, Wa-honʻ-i-ge (Edwin’s father), and other prominent men of the village. My father seemed to take no notice of my entrance, but kept on talking. When he had finished speaking, his eyes rested on me, and after a moment’s pause, he said, “Son, step to the middle of the floor.” I did so. Then in a low tone he began:
“I speak not boastfully; all who are here have known me from boyhood, and will know what I am about to say to you is true. Even before I grew to be your size I was left to face the difficulties of life. I have felt the pangs of hunger and the chills of winter, but, by ceaseless struggles, I overcame poverty and gathered about me, as I grew to manhood, many of the things that make life bearable; yet I did not cease to struggle. I have won honors and position among our people, and the respect of the tribes having friendly relations with us. Success has attended me; but, remembering my early struggles, I suppressed vanity, and gave help to the poor. When journeying with my people, if I saw any of them weary and footsore, I gave them horses, and sent them
