always a battle-ground between the horriblest Indian scowl
and a grin of delight at his success in diabolizing his visage with
the paints. Then with painted face and a feather in his hair he would
proudly range the woods in his little kingdom and store up every scrap
of woodlore he could find, invent or learn from his schoolmates.

[Illustration: Yan's toilet]

Odd things that he found in the woods he would bring to his shanty:
curled sticks, feathers, bones, skulls, fungus, shells, an old
cowhorn--things that interested him, he did not know why. He made
Indian necklaces of the shells, strung together alternately with
the backbone of a fish. He let his hair grow as long as possible,
employing various stratagems, even the unpalatable one of combing it
to avoid the monthly trim of the maternal scissors. He lay for hours
with the sun beating on his face to correct his colour to standard,
and the only semblance of personal vanity that he ever had was
pleasure in hearing disparaging remarks about the darkness of his
complexion. He tried to do everything as an Indian would do it,
striking Indian poses, walking carefully with his toes turned in,
breaking off twigs to mark a place, guessing at the time by the sun,
and grunting "Ugh" or "Wagh" when anything surprised him. Disparaging
remarks about White-men, delivered in supposed Indian dialect, were
an important part of his pastime. "Ugh, White-men heap no good" and
"Wagh, paleface--pale fool in woods," were among his favourites.

He was much influenced by phrases that caught his ear. "The brown
sinewy arm of the Indian," was one of them. It discovered to him that
his own arms were white as milk. There was, however, a simple remedy.
He rolled up his sleeves to the shoulder and exposed them to the full