V.

THE DEAD MAN'S PLUM BUSH.


One autumn afternoon many people came streaming toward the dwelling of
our near neighbor. With painted faces, and wearing broad white bosoms of
elk's teeth, they hurried down the narrow footpath to Haraka Wambdi's
wigwam. Young mothers held their children by the hand, and half pulled
them along in their haste. They overtook and passed by the bent old
grandmothers who were trudging along with crooked canes toward the
centre of excitement. Most of the young braves galloped hither on their
ponies. Toothless warriors, like the old women, came more slowly, though
mounted on lively ponies. They sat proudly erect on their horses. They
wore their eagle plumes, and waved their various trophies of former
wars.

In front of the wigwam a great fire was built, and several large black
kettles of venison were suspended over it. The crowd were seated about
it on the grass in a great circle. Behind them some of the braves stood
leaning against the necks of their ponies, their tall figures draped in
loose robes which were well drawn over their eyes.

Young girls, with their faces glowing like bright red autumn leaves,
their glossy braids falling over each ear, sat coquettishly beside their
chaperons. It was a custom for young Indian women to invite some older
relative to escort them to the public feasts. Though it was not an iron
law, it was generally observed.

Haraka Wambdi was a strong young brave, who had just returned from his