and unstring the bow, and also how to attach the arrow to the
string. The red, blue and yellow arrows, he told the boy, were to
be used only whenever there was any extra good shooting to be done,
so the boy never used these three until he became a master of
the art. Then he would practice on eagles and hawks, and never an
eagle or hawk continued his flight when the boy shot one of the
arrows after him.

One day the boy came running into the tent, exclaiming: "Mother,
mother, I have shot and killed the most beautiful bird I ever saw."
"Bring it in, my son, and let me look at it." He brought the bird
and upon examining it she pronounced it a different type of bird
from any she had ever seen. Its feathers were of variegated colors
and on its head was a topknot of pure white feathers. The father,
returning, asked the boy with which arrow he had killed the bird.
"With the red one," answered the
boy. "I was so anxious to secure the pretty bird that, although I
know I could have killed it with one of my common arrows, I wanted
to be certain, so I used the red one." "That is right, my son,"
said the father. "When you have the least doubt of your aim,
always use one of the painted arrows, and you will never miss your
mark."

The parents decided to give a big feast in honor of their son
killing the strange, beautiful bird. So a great many elderly women
were called to the tent of Pretty Dove to assist her in making
ready for the big feast. For ten days these women cooked and
pounded beef and cherries, and got ready the choicest dishes known
to the Indians. Of buffalo, beaver, deer, antelope, moose, bear,
quail, grouse, duck of all kinds, geese and plover meats there was