“I think I better stay home and be quiet,” he answered, opening his book.
I spent all the forenoon with my parents, and in the afternoon I went in search of some of my village playmates. I found a number of them on the hillside shooting with their bows and arrows. They gave me a noisy welcome in mock English, which made me laugh heartily; then I had to wrestle with one or two of them, and when our peculiar greetings were over, the boys resumed their play, in which they let me join, one of them lending me his bow and arrows.
Our shooting from mark to mark, from one prominent object to another, brought us to a high hill overlooking the ripe fields of corn on the wide bottom below, along the gray Missouri. Here and there among the patches of maize arose little curls of blue smoke, while men and women moved about in their gayly-colored costumes among the broad green leaves of the corn; some, bending under great loads on their backs, were plodding their way laboriously to the fires whence arose the pretty wreaths of smoke.
“They’re making sweet corn,” exclaimed one of the youngsters whose little naked brown back glinted against the afternoon sun, and he pointed to the workers in the field.
As we stood watching the busy, picturesque scene below us, one little fellow held his bow close to his ear and began strumming on the string, then all the rest played on their bows in the same manner, until one of them suddenly broke into a victory song, in which the others joined.
At the close of the song they gave me a graphic description of the attack on the camp when it was pitched on the Republican river. Although the enemy was repulsed, and the hunting ground secured to our people, the battle cost many lives, several of the enemy’s warriors were left on the field, and the Omahas lost some of their bravest men.
While yet the boys were telling of the thrilling incidents of the battle, we arose with a sudden impulse and rushed down the hill with loud war-cries, as though attacking the foe, the tall grass snapping against our moccasined feet as we sped along. We were rapidly approaching a house which stood alone, when one of the older boys who was running ahead suddenly stopped and raised his hand as though to command silence. Immediately our shouts ceased, and, seeing the serious look on the lad’s face, “What is it?” we asked in frightened tones as we gathered about him.
Without a word he pointed to a woman who was cutting the tall sunflower stalks that had almost hidden her little dwelling with their golden blossoms. Her long black hair flowed over her shoulders unbraided, a sign of mourning. Now and again she would pause in her work to look up at the humble home and utter sighs and sobs that told a tale of sorrow. Mingled with these outpourings of grief came often the words, “My husband! my little child!” with terms of endearment and tenderness for which I can find no equivalent in English. On a blanket spread over the ground near by sat a tot of a child babbling to itself and making the beheaded sunflowers kiss each other, innocently oblivious of its mother’s grief. It was a sad homecoming for the woman; the spirit of her husband had fled to the dark clouds of the west to join the host of warriors who had died on the field of battle, and his bones lay bleaching in the sands of a far-off country.
“It is Gre-don-ste-win weeping for her husband who was killed in the battle last summer,” whispered the big boy; “let us go away quietly.”
When we had withdrawn to a distance where we were sure our noise would not disturb the mourner, one of the boys called out, “Let’s play Oo-haeʻba-shon-shon!”13 Years after I learned that this game was played by the children of the white people, and that they called it, “Follow my leader.”
We graded ourselves according to size, the biggest boy at the head as leader. Each one took hold of the belt of the boy in front of him, and then we started off at a rapid jog-trot, keeping time to this little song which we sang at the top of our voices.
Children’s Song
“Follow My Leader.”
Whatever the leader did, all were bound to do likewise. If he touched a post, we touched it too; if he kicked the side of a tent, all of us kicked it; so on we went, winding around the dwellings, in and out of vacant lodges, through mud puddles and queer, almost inaccessible places, and even entering the village, where we made the place ring with our song.
At last, tired out, the boys broke line and scattered to their homes. It was then that I suddenly realized the lateness of the hour, and remembered my promise to Brush. I ran to the house, took a hurried leave of my parents, picked up the package of buffalo meat my mother had prepared for my schoolmate, and fairly flew over the hill between the village and the Mission.
As I came running down the hill to the school I saw Lester, Warren, and Edwin sitting in a row on the fence.
“Hello!” I shouted, “what you sitting on that fence for, like a lot of little crows?”
No answer came, nor did the boys move. I began to wonder if they were displeased with me, although I could not think of anything I had done to give them offence. As I drew near, I noticed that the expression on their faces indicated alarm rather than displeasure, and, becoming anxious in
