him with my tiny bow and arrows! Stealthily
and cautiously I approached, keeping my eyes
upon the pretty little animal, and just as I was
about to let fly my shaft, I heard a hissing noise
at my feet. There lay a horrid snake, coiled and
ready to spring! Forgetful that I was a warrior,
I gave a loud scream and started backward; but
soon recollecting myself, looked down with shame,
although no one was near. However, I retreated
to the inclined trunk of a fallen tree, and there, as
I have often been told, was overheard soliloquiz-
ing in the following words: "I wonder if a snake
can climb a tree!"

I remember on this occasion of our last sugar
bush in Minnesota, that I stood one day outside
of our hut and watched the approach of a visitor
--a bent old man, his hair almost white, and
carrying on his back a large bundle of red willow,
or kinnikinick, which the Indians use for smoking.
He threw down his load at the door and thus
saluted us: "You have indeed perfect weather for
sugar-making."

It was my great-grandfather, Cloud Man,
whose original village was on the shores of Lakes
Calhoun and Harriet, now in the suburbs of the
city of Minneapolis. He was the first Sioux chief
to welcome the Protestant missionaries among his
people, and a well-known character in those pio-