about a woman who had a cross tattooed upon each of her cheeks."

It was a long story of a woman whose magic power lay hidden behind the
marks upon her face. I fell asleep before the story was completed.

Ever after that night I felt suspicious of tattooed people. Wherever I
saw one I glanced furtively at the mark and round about it, wondering
what terrible magic power was covered there.

It was rarely that such a fearful story as this one was told by the camp
fire. Its impression was so acute that the picture still remains vividly
clear and pronounced.




III.

THE BEADWORK.


Soon after breakfast mother sometimes began her beadwork. On a bright,
clear day, she pulled out the wooden pegs that pinned the skirt of our
wigwam to the ground, and rolled the canvas part way up on its frame of
slender poles. Then the cool morning breezes swept freely through our
dwelling, now and then wafting the perfume of sweet grasses from newly
burnt prairie.

Untying the long tasseled strings that bound a small brown buckskin bag,
my mother spread upon a mat beside her bunches of colored beads, just as