first battle, a warrior. His near relatives, to celebrate his new rank,
were spreading a feast to which the whole of the Indian village was
invited.

Holding my pretty striped blanket in readiness to throw over my
shoulders, I grew more and more restless as I watched the gay throng
assembling. My mother was busily broiling a wild duck that my aunt had
that morning brought over.

"Mother, mother, why do you stop to cook a small meal when we are
invited to a feast?" I asked, with a snarl in my voice.

"My child, learn to wait. On our way to the celebration we are going to
stop at Chanyu's wigwam. His aged mother-in-law is lying very ill, and
I think she would like a taste of this small game."

Having once seen the suffering on the thin, pinched features of this
dying woman, I felt a momentary shame that I had not remembered her
before.

On our way I ran ahead of my mother and was reaching out my hand to pick
some purple plums that grew on a small bush, when I was checked by a low
"Sh!" from my mother.

"Why, mother, I want to taste the plums!" I exclaimed, as I dropped my
hand to my side in disappointment.

"Never pluck a single plum from this brush, my child, for its roots are
wrapped around an Indian's skeleton. A brave is buried here. While he
lived he was so fond of playing the game of striped plum seeds that, at