his death, his set of plum seeds were buried in his hands. From them
sprang up this little bush."

Eyeing the forbidden fruit, I trod lightly on the sacred ground, and
dared to speak only in whispers until we had gone many paces from it.
After that time I halted in my ramblings whenever I came in sight of the
plum bush. I grew sober with awe, and was alert to hear a
long-drawn-out whistle rise from the roots of it. Though I had never
heard with my own ears this strange whistle of departed spirits, yet I
had listened so frequently to hear the old folks describe it that I knew
I should recognize it at once.

The lasting impression of that day, as I recall it now, is what my
mother told me about the dead man's plum bush.




VI.

THE GROUND SQUIRREL.


In the busy autumn days my cousin Warca-Ziwin's mother came to our
wigwam to help my mother preserve foods for our winter use. I was very
fond of my aunt, because she was not so quiet as my mother. Though she
was older, she was more jovial and less reserved. She was slender and
remarkably erect. While my mother's hair was heavy and black, my aunt
had unusually thin locks.