to our own little children. Washington is very rich. Washington now
owns our country. If he wants to help this poor Indian woman, Blue-Star,
let him give her some of his land and his money. This is all I will say
until you answer me. I shake hands with you with my heart. The Great
Spirit hears my words. They are true.

"Your friend,

"CHIEF HIGH FLIER.

"X (his mark)."

The letter was addressed to a prominent American woman. A stamp was
carefully placed on the envelope.

Early the next morning, before the dew was off the grass, the
chieftain's riding pony was caught from the pasture and brought to his
log house. It was saddled and bridled by a younger man, his son with
whom he made his home. The old chieftain came out, carrying in one hand
his long-stemmed pipe and tobacco pouch. His blanket was loosely girdled
about his waist. Tightly holding the saddle horn, he placed a moccasined
foot carefully into the stirrup and pulled himself up awkwardly into the
saddle, muttering to himself, "Alas, I can no more leap into my saddle.
I now must crawl about in my helplessness." He was past eighty years of
age, and no longer agile.

He set upon his ten-mile trip to the only post office for hundreds of
miles around. In his shirt pocket, he carried the letter destined, in
due season, to reach the heart of American people. His pony, grown old
in service, jogged along the dusty road. Memories of other days thronged