the wayside, and for the lonely rider transformed all the country. Those
days were gone when the Indian youths were taught to be truthful,--to be
merciful to the poor. Those days were gone when moral cleanliness was a
chief virtue; when public feasts were given in honor of the virtuous
girls and young men of the tribe. Untold mischief is now possible
through these broken ancient laws. The younger generation were not being
properly trained in the high virtues. A slowly starving race was growing
mad, and the pitifully weak sold their lands for a pot of porridge.

"He, he, he! He, he, he!" he lamented. "Small Voice Woman, my own
relative is being represented as the mother of this strange
Blue-Star--the papers were made by two young Indian men who have
learned the white man's ways. Why must I be forced to accept the
mischief of children? My memory is clear. My reputation for veracity is
well known.

"Small Voice Woman lived in my house until her death. She had only one
child and it was a _boy_!" He held his hand over this thumping heart,
and was reminded of the letter in his pocket. "This letter,--what will
happen when it reaches my good friend?" he asked himself. The chieftain
rubbed his dim eyes and groaned, "If only my good friend knew the folly
of turning my letter into the hands of bureaucrats! In face of repeated
defeat, I am daring once more to send this one letter." An inner voice
said in his ear, "And this one letter will share the same fate of the
other letters."

Startled by the unexpected voice, he jerked upon the bridle reins and
brought the drowsy pony to a sudden halt. There was no one near. He
found himself a mile from the post office, for the cluster of government
buildings, where lived the superintendent, were now in plain sight. His