Title: The Little Indian Weaver
Author: Brandeis, Madeline, 1897-1937
Language: English
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[Illustration: BAH, THE LITTLE INDIAN WEAVER]



_The_ LITTLE
INDIAN WEAVER

BY
MADELINE BRANDEIS

_Producer of the Motion Pictures_

"The Little Indian Weaver"
"The Wee Scotch Piper"
"The Little Dutch Tulip Girl"
"The Little Swiss Wood-Carver"

Distributed by Pathè Exchange, Inc., New York City

_Photographic Illustrations by the Author_

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS      NEW YORK

_by arrangement with the A. Flanagan Company_


_COPYRIGHT, 1928, BY A. FLANAGAN COMPANY_

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA



     To every child of every land,
     Little sister, little brother,
     As in this book your lives unfold,
     May you learn to love each other.



CONTENTS


    Chapter I                 Page

The Corn Ear Doll                9

    Chapter II

Something Terrible Happens      32

    Chapter III

At the Trading Post             43

    Chapter IV

The Prayer Stick                62

    Chapter V

At Bah's Hogan                  75

    Chapter VI

Billy Starts His Story          88

    Chapter VII

All About the Indians          101

    Chapter VIII

Who Wins the Radio?            119


[Illustration: BAH AND CORNELIA]



The Little Indian Weaver



CHAPTER I

THE CORN EAR DOLL


How would you like to have a doll made from a corn ear? That is the
only kind of doll that Bah ever thought of having. Bah was only five
years old and she had never been away from her home, so of course she
couldn't know very much.

But she knew a bit about weaving blankets, and she was learning more
each day from her mother, who made beautiful ones and sold them.

You see, Bah and her mother were American Indians, and they belonged
to the Navajo tribe. Their home was on the Navajo Reservation in
Arizona, and they called it an Indian village. But if you went there
you would not think it very much of a village in comparison to the
villages you know.

As a matter of fact, all you could see was a row of funny little round
houses, looking very much like large beehives, put together with mud
and sticks and called hogans. A street of hogans in each of which lived
a whole family of Indians, a few goats and sheep, a stray dog or two,
an Indian woman sitting outside her hogan weaving a blanket, perhaps a
child running with a dog--this, then, was a Navajo village.

[Illustration: THE LITTLE INDIAN WEAVER]

How different from your villages with their smooth stone buildings,
their stores and gasoline stations, and pretty shrub-covered bungalows!

Most Indian women have many babies, and the whole family lives
together in one room which is the living room, bedroom, kitchen and
dining room all rolled into one. In the top of the hogan is a hole, so
that the smoke from the cooking fire in the middle of the room can go
out.

Bah did not spend much time in her hogan. No sooner was she up in the
morning than she was outside gathering sticks for the breakfast fire.
From the time she put her little brown face outside the hogan door,
bright and early in the morning, until nightfall when she cuddled down
in her warm Navajo blanket, she was out in the air--and the air is so
fresh out there in the desert; so much fresher than it is in the big
smoky cities.

Bah was a bright-eyed, healthy little girl, and the way she dressed
will sound queer to you, for her clothes were made just like her
mother's. On rainy days you have no doubt "dressed up" in mother's
clothes and thought it quite a lark. But when the game was over, how
glad you were to come back to your own little dresses and short socks.

But Bah had always dressed in the same way--and that is, in a long full
cotton skirt, a calico waist with long sleeves, and many strings of
bright beads about her neck. Her hair was long, black and shiny, and
her mother tied it up in a knot at the back of her neck with a white
cloth.

Every morning Bah had a lesson in weaving, just as you have a drawing
lesson or a sewing lesson. Her father had made her a tiny loom which
stood outside the hogan door next to her mother's big loom.

The morning when Bah planned the corn ear doll she was in the midst of
her weaving lesson. Mother's fingers were flying in and out, and Bah's
fingers were slow--oh, so slow, but her mind was not. Her mind was at
work on a doll. She had once seen the picture of a doll, a real one. It
was such a lovely doll! She wanted to cuddle it. How she would love to
hug a doll close to her and rock it to sleep!

The corn was ripe in the field which was not far away. After the lesson
she would pick an ear of corn, dry it nicely and dress it in a wee
Indian blanket. She would make some beads for its neck. She would stick
in two black beads for eyes. She would--

"Bah! you do not heed the lesson!"

It was Mother. And Mother was scolding. There were few times in Bah's
life when she could remember Mother having been cross. Bah was at once
attentive.

"I am sorry, Ma Shima (my mother)," she said, in the Navajo language.
"I was dreaming of something sweet."

"It is bad medicine to dream when one is awake, Bah," said Mother.
"You will never learn to weave--and a Navajo woman who cannot weave
blankets is indeed a useless one."

Bah hung her head in shame. But Mother laughed.

"Do not look that way, my little one, but try now to make the little
pattern which I teach you."

Bah did try. She had to rip out several rows of bad weaving caused by
her dreams of her corn ear doll. But not once, until the lesson was
over, did Bah think again of the doll.

The weaving lesson was at last over, and Bah ran quickly to the
cornfield, where she began to look eagerly for a proper ear of corn
with which to make a proper Indian doll.

As she was looking through the many waving stalks, she thought she
heard her name being called. But was it her name, and was it being
called? It sounded more like singing than like calling--and Mother did
not sing.

     "Bah, Bah, Black Sheep
     Have you any wool?"

This is what Bah heard.

She stopped in her search and looked around. There, a few yards away,
was some one coming towards her on a pony. Bah's first thought was to
run. She did not want to meet a stranger. So few came here to her home,
where the only people the little girl ever saw were Mother, Father,
and the few Indians who lived nearby.

White people were mysterious to Bah, and yet she often wondered about
the white children and how they played and worked and what they did all
day in school. Bah would go to school next year--to the big new school
just built on the Reservation for Indian children. White people built
it, and so it must be like the white children's school. Sometimes she
longed to go--and other times she was just a little bit afraid.

     "Yes, sir, yes, sir,
     Three bags full."

The pony which Bah had seen from a distance was now standing beside
her, and she could see the rider, although he could not see her, for
she had hidden and was crouching between the cornstalks.

[Illustration: BAH'S HOME]

The rider was a very small person--a boy--a white boy. Bah really
didn't feel as though he should be classified as white, for his skin
was a mixture of orange and brown--orange where the sun had burned him,
and over that a pattern of vivid brown freckles. Bah had never before
seen anything like him, and it is no wonder that the timid little
Indian hid herself.

The speckled boy took off his large cowboy hat and wiped his hot brow
with a cowboy's handkerchief.

"Gee, it's hot, Peanuts," he said aloud to the pony. "And I'd like to
know the way back--but looks as if we're lost."

Peanuts was presumably bored, for he let his head sink slowly, closed
his eyes and patiently waited for the next move. None came.

Bah, in her hiding place, was as dumb, if not as bored, as Peanuts. She
was tense with excitement, which obviously Peanuts was not, and did not
take her eyes from the boy's face. His every move very much interested
her. Here, then, was a white boy. He must be white, for he was not an
Indian and he spoke English.

Bah understood English, and of that she was very proud. Her mother and
father had always traded with the white man, so they had learned to
speak English, and had wisely taught their little girl. Now how much
easier it would be for Bah when she started to school.

But her knowledge did not help her at the moment when she looked up
from her cornstalk hiding place into the face of a live white boy.
Indeed she had even decided to run away, and was crawling noiselessly
through the corn.

     "Baa, Baa, Black Sheep,"

again the boy began to sing as he started to turn away. Bah stopped
crawling. He did sing her name. He wanted her to come back. Maybe she
could help him find his way. And Oh! the pony was stepping all over the
corn. Didn't he know better than to do that?

The cornstalks rustled. The pony jumped to the side, and the boy turned
in his saddle and saw Bah standing.

"Oh, hello!" he said and turned back--the pony trampling upon a
beautiful stalk of corn. "I didn't see you before. Where were you?"

Bah couldn't speak. She tried ever so hard, but the English words she
knew so well would not come.

The boy jumped down from his pony and went up to her. There was a smile
on his face and as he came closer she saw that his eyes were as blue as
the sky. That part of him was pretty, thought Bah, even if his skin was
not--and the smile was friendly. So she gained courage.

"You call my name?" she ventured.

The boy looked puzzled.

"No," he said, "I don't know your name, but I'm glad I've found you."

Again he smiled, and this time Bah smiled too.

"My name Bah," she said, "and you say 'Bah, Bah, back skip'--I think
you call me come back to you."

When it suddenly dawned upon the boy what she meant he opened his mouth
very wide indeed and laughed so hard that Bah again began to be afraid.
But he stopped suddenly, realizing perhaps that he had frightened her,
and said:

"Oh, no. That is a song we sing about 'black sheep' that goes 'bah
bah'! I didn't know you heard me singing it."

Bah looked a bit ashamed, and did not offer a reply. The boy kept on
talking--

"But, gee, where do you come from, Bah? Is your house around here?"

"Yes," said Bah. "Hogan over way, Bah come to find corn in cornfield."

"Oh, I see," said the boy, "for dinner, I guess."

"No," replied the Indian girl, looking up into his face, "Bah make so
pretty doll from corn ear. Will dress in blanket and beads. You ever
see little girl's doll?"

She looked so intent and innocent that the boy could not scoff at what
would have been, among members of his own group at home, a subject
entirely forbidden in the presence of growing gentlemen. Dolls! What
interest had he in dolls! But as he looked into the upturned face of
the little brown maiden, he suddenly realized that she had never heard
of a boy's dislike for dolls; in fact, she had probably never before
met a white boy nor seen a white doll.

"Oh, yes, plenty of 'em," answered the white boy, "but never made of an
ear of corn--"

Then, seeing a shadow pass over her face he resumed gallantly, "But it
ought to make a peach of a doll. Maybe I could help you make it."

Now Bah was certain that she would like the white boy. She had never
before had a human playmate, and the feeling was a pleasant one. But
she remembered that her new friend was lost.

"You no can find way home?" she asked.

The boy laughed.

"I guess you want to get rid of me," he said. Then, sobering, he
resumed. "Yes, really, I'm lost. Peanuts and I have been wandering all
morning. You see, we started from Tuba early and we just didn't watch
the trails, so here we are."

"Oh, Tuba," said Bah, "not so very far. I show you how to go."

"But first I'll help you fix up a corn doll," said the boy. "We'll
first have to find a good fat corn ear. Nice fat dolls are the best,
don't you think so?"

As he talked he began looking through the cornstalks, and Bah watched
him. He finally found what he considered to be an ideal ear, and
together the two children made it into a doll, black bead eyes,
cornsilk hair, blanket, and all.

"I have just the name for her," said the boy. "We'll call her
'Cornelia!' Shall we?"

Bah nodded happily. The name was a new one to her and she did not catch
its meaning in relation to her beautiful new doll, but it pleased her
nevertheless. In fact, everything about the boy pleased her, and she
was sorry when at last he said:

[Illustration: BAH AND CORNELIA]

"It must be getting late. You'd better tell me how to get home. Mother
will wonder what happened."

Bah pointed out directions and the boy, thanking her, held out his hand
and said: "You never even asked my name. Don't you want to know?"

Bah drooped her head shyly as she replied: "Indian never ask name. Very
bad manner."

The white boy's eyes opened wide.

"That's funny," he said. "Then how do you get to know people's names?"

"When one people like other people, they tell name. No ask," said Bah
seriously.

"Oh, then I'll tell you quick 'cause I like you. My name's Billy."

Bah did not reply, but stood watching Billy as he swung himself onto
his pony. Then, when he was seated and smiled down at her, she smiled
up sweetly and said:

"We have cow named Billy."

[Illustration: BILLY]



CHAPTER II

SOMETHING TERRIBLE HAPPENS


For days Bah's chief delight was her new corn ear doll. She kept it
with her constantly. It went to bed with her, sat at meals with her,
and watched the daily weaving lesson.

But one day a terrible thing happened. She was sitting by her mother's
side outside the hogan, her little fingers flying through the strings
of her loom, and one eye watching Mother's more experienced fingers as
they made a beautiful new pattern.

Cornelia had been carefully dressed in her blanket, her beads hung
about her neck and fondly kissed by her devoted parent, and was now
lying at Bah's feet while the little girl worked hard at her lesson.

[Illustration: THE WEAVING LESSON]

"Pull your wool tighter, Bah," said Mother, in Navajo.

Bah's fingers and tongue worked together. Children's tongues have a
habit of moving with whatever else is in motion.

And as Bah worked, some sheep came wandering in from the field. They
were tame sheep and often nosed about the hogan for a bit of human
company or food, as the case might be, and this morning I fear the
reason was food.

Father sheep was very large and therefore hungrier than the rest. His
hunger made him bold. But Bah was a particular friend of his, and I
doubt whether even his appetite could have driven him to do what he did
that morning, had he been able to guess the great sorrow he was to
cause.

"You have left out a stitch, my child, and there will be a hole in the
work."

Bah's fingers stopped and so did her tongue.

"Oh dear, must I do that all over again, Mother?" she asked.

"If you wish to weave perfectly so that you may some day sell your
work, then you must learn to rip and go over many times."

Ripping is deadly work, as everyone who has ever ripped knows. And Bah
was not as interested in ripping as she had been in making her pattern.
So her thoughts naturally turned to her precious Cornelia lying at her
feet.

Her eyes turned at the same time, and horror upon horrors, what did
she see? The big black sheep was there chewing contentedly, but
Cornelia was gone. The little blanket was there--so were the beads and
some of the cornsilk hair. But Cornelia was gone. The sheep went on
chewing and couldn't understand why Bah did not caress him as usual.

"Bah, do pay attention to your work!"

Mother was annoyed. Bah turned around and Mother saw a very sad sight.
She saw before her another mother--a stricken little mother whose child
had just provided a meal for a hungry animal. She rocked an empty
blanket back and forth, and the tears were beginning to gather. Mother
understood what had happened, and now her voice sounded soft and kind.

[Illustration: "GO AWAY, MR. SHEEP!"]

"Poor Bah! Your doll is gone!"

The little girl was crying as she continued to hug the empty blanket.

"Do not cry, my little one," said Mother. "Are there not many more corn
ears in the field?"

"Yes, my Mother," sobbed the child, "but no more Cornelias!"

And that was final. Never again could Bah go back to the cornfield.
Never again! How could Mother even have suggested such a thing! Didn't
she know that Cornelia, since the day of her birth, had been different
from all other ears of corn?

Why, Cornelia was a doll--she and Billy had decided that--and the rest
were vegetables! Oh, didn't Mother understand? Perhaps Mother did, for
her next remark showed it.

"One day, Bah, when I went to the Trading Post near Tuba I saw a most
beautiful doll. She was an Indian baby--a papoose--and she was strapped
upon the prettiest little laced baby cradle you ever saw. She was
dressed in a bright blanket and she had real hair and such lovely beads
around her neck."

A smile was trying to chase away the tears on the face of the little
mother as she listened to her own mother's recital of something too
wonderful to imagine. She said sorrowfully: "Some white child will buy
her, and how happy she will be. Ah, how I should like to have her."

Mother said: "And so you shall, if you will work to have her."

Bah's eyes asked the question: "How?" and her mother went on: "You
know, Bah, that Mother sells or trades blankets, and that Father sells
or trades his beautiful silver and matrix jewelry to the Trading Post.
We do this so that we may have, in return, things which we want and
need. Now, you want and need a little doll. Why not sell your work? Bah
must weave a little blanket and take it to the store where they will
perhaps trade with you for the papoose doll."

"Do you really think they will, Ma Shima?" asked Bah as if she could
hardly believe it, and she wiped away her tears.

[Illustration: HOW BAH LONGED FOR THE PAPOOSE DOLL!]

"Yes, I do," answered Mother. "But your blanket must be well made and
of a pretty pattern--else they will not take it, for they, in turn,
must sell it to the tourists."

"Then I shall make the most beautiful blanket which has ever been
made," laughed Bah, now thoroughly interested in her new task with its
wonderful object.

She worked all through the morning on her little blanket, with happy
thoughts of a real-haired Indian doll flying through her mind as her
fingers flew through her work. It was not until she heard Mother
grinding the corn for lunch that she looked up, and not until then that
she thought again of the morning's sorrow. But then she did think of
it, and her parents wondered why she could not eat her corn bread.



CHAPTER III

AT THE TRADING POST


Billy's mother and father had come to Arizona for a special reason.
Billy's father was a writer, and he had come for information on the
Navajo Indians for a new book he was writing. Every day he would go to
the Indian villages, sit among the big chiefs and medicine men (who are
the wise ones among the Indians and are supposed to work charms which
cure the sick) and he would jot down in his notebook many things which
they told him.

Billy went with his father the first few days, but he didn't care much
for the way they sat around and did nothing but talk. Billy was a very
active boy and he soon grew tired of listening to the droning voices of
the Indian men, and the scratching of Father's pencil. At last he told
Father how it was, and Father laughed.

"I thought you were going to write, too, Billy," he said. "You'll never
find out about the Indians if you don't take the trouble to listen--and
then you'll never win that composition contest you've been dreaming
about."

It was true that Billy, since he had left New York, had dreamed of
nothing else but the composition contest. Many of his friends at home
were already struggling with their compositions, for the prize was
worth striving for--a wonderful radio set, the very latest model.

[Illustration: "I TRADE MY BLANKET FOR PAPOOSE DOLL!"]

And how the others had envied him, for he was to go to Arizona and
live among the Indians where he would be sure to learn so much of
interest and send in a true account of the lives of American Indians.
The contest was open to any composition dealing with children of any
particular race or country, and was to reveal their habits and customs.

"Oh! You'll win it easily, Bill," his chum had said. "Indians are such
interesting people, and you'll find out all about them if you stick to
your dad."

And Billy had been fired with ambition, when he had left, and when he
had first arrived. But the novelty of the idea was gradually wearing
off and he seemed to like far more to gallop over the country on his
pony, Peanuts, than to glean knowledge. Especially since his meeting
with Bah did he look forward each morning to his ride. And each day he
tried to find the Indian girl and went many times to the cornfield. But
she was never there and, try as he might, Billy could not find her
village.

Father did not wait for Billy to answer him, but said: "Well, old man,
I can see the radio set gradually taking wings and broadcasting itself!
You'll never win it this way, you know--and you'd have a good chance,
too, if you'd come along and listen to some of the old fellows I'm
chumming with each day."

"Oh, I'll come along tomorrow, Dad," said Billy carelessly. "Today I'm
going to the Trading Post and see the Indian stuff there."

"Well, do as you like, Son," said his father, "but don't be annoyed if
you don't win the contest."

"I'll write something yet, Dad, you'll see."

Peanuts and Billy found themselves at the Trading Post in the heat of
the day. Billy tied the pony in the shade and went into the store. It
was filled with a mixed assortment of objects. On one side of the room
were groceries, pots and pans, cigarettes, in fact a little bit of
everything necessary for housekeeping. On the other side were the
Indian curios--silver and matrix jewelry, beautifully fashioned with
blue stones set in, handsome Navajo blankets hanging on the wall,
pottery of all kinds, and beads, beads, beads.

Billy wandered about the store and he thought of his mother, and how
she would like something to take home as a souvenir. The beads looked
hopeful, as he could carry them, while a pottery jar or blanket would
be big and heavy. Taking from his pocket his two dollars and some few
cents, he selected the string of beads which looked most likely.

One string in particular very much pleased him. It was delicately made,
but looked simple enough to be within reach of his two dollars. The
shop-keeper was chewing tobacco in the corner. He was a white man made
brown by the Arizona sun and wind.

"How much is this string?" asked Billy, holding it up for the man to
see.

"That one's fifty dollars!"

"Fifty what?" asked Billy, dazed.

"Fifty dollars, Son," repeated the man, "and that's one of the
cheapest."

"Gee whiz," sighed Billy. "I'm out with my two an' a quarter!"

"Yes," smiled the man. "No one knows how much work the Injuns put into
that stuff. It's all handmade, and their tools ain't so good either, so
it takes 'em a long time. But they sure know how to make 'em."

"You bet they do," said Billy--and just then his eye fell on a doll, a
papoose it was, with a blanket and a string of beads. He thought of
Cornelia and smiled to himself. How Bah would open her eyes if she
could see this one!

As he was thinking about her, he suddenly decided to try once more to
find her. Maybe this storekeeper knew where the village was. He
asked--the storekeeper knew of several not far away.

"The Indians come in every day with things to trade. It's funny how
they like plain stuff like beans and salt and will trade beautiful
jewelry and blankets for just plain sacks of food. But we try and
treat 'em fair. It would be easy though to cheat 'em. They don't know
how valuable their stuff is."

"But you don't!" said Billy.

"No, we don't. Indians are honest, and white men should treat 'em
honestly!"

"That's right," said Billy, thinking of the only Indian he ever knew,
and deciding to be off in search of her home.

As he stepped out of the door he saw a small figure trudging along
towards the Trading Post with what looked like a small blanket thrown
over her arm. As she came closer he recognized Bah and ran to meet
her.

"Gee, I'm glad to see you, Bah," he cried. "Do you know I've been
looking for you ever since the day we made Cornelia. Do you remember?"

Bah was smiling happily, but upon mention of that name her face fell.

"Why, what's the matter, Bah? Wasn't she a good doll?"

"Cornelia ate up!" said Bah, slowly.

"Ate up what?" asked Billy.

"Sheep--big one--"

"Gee, what an appetite she must have had!" laughed Billy. But seeing
that his friend was taking the conversation seriously he stopped
laughing and asked: "What do you mean?"

"Big sheep come--very hungry. Eat up Cornelia!"

"Aw, that is too bad!" said Billy.

But now it was Bah's turn to smile. She held out her blanket and said:
"You see Bah's blanket. Bah come to trade blanket for doll in Trading
Post. So pretty doll, Ma Shima said!"

Billy remembered the papoose doll and was delighted to think that it
would really belong to his friend.

"That's great," he said. "May I go along with you while you trade? I
never saw anyone trade and I'd like to watch you."

"Me never trade before," said the Indian girl softly, and it seemed to
Billy that her voice trembled.

"Poor little kid," he said to himself. "She's scared stiff!"

He went into the store with Bah and watched her as she walked up to the
man in the corner and handed him the blanket. Then she pointed to the
doll--but she said nothing. The man took the blanket and examined it.
He knew immediately what she wanted.

He understood Indians. And as he looked at the blanket a smile passed
over his face, and Billy noticed for the first time that the blanket
was far from perfect.

There was a hole in it, and some of the threads were sticking out. Oh,
it was not a very well made blanket when one compared it with the works
of art hanging on the wall.

As the man smiled to himself Billy's anger rose. Wasn't she only a
little girl? How could they expect her to weave as well as the women
did? It was wonderful that she could do that well! Why, he didn't know
a girl at home who could even start to weave a blanket like that. He
felt his fists clenching together as he watched the man's face. At last
the man spoke. He spoke only two words as he handed Bah her blanket.

"No trade."

The Indian girl looked at him for a moment, and Billy saw two small
lakes in her eyes. She did not wait for them to overflow, but ran out
of the store, holding her little blanket tight.

Billy came to himself after she had flown through the door, and made a
start as though to follow her. But he stopped and turned.

[Illustration: "PRETTY PAPOOSE DOLL."]

"How much is that doll, mister?" he asked abruptly.

"That doll's two an' a half, Son."

"Well, I'll give you two twenty-five for her, an' that's all," said a
voice that Billy could hardly believe was his own, so big and manly did
it sound.

The man looked at him for a moment and then evidently seeing something
he liked in the boy's eyes, said:

"All right, sonny. It's yours. And you can bet that Indian kid will
never forget you!"

Without another word the boy paid his money, took the doll which the
man wrapped for him, and departed.

Outside the Post, when Billy mounted his pony, his thought was,
naturally, to go to Bah and deliver the doll. The distress which he had
seen in the eyes of his little friend made him realize just what a
disappointment she had had.

But, alas, Billy knew no more of Bah's whereabouts than he had known
before seeing her at the Trading Post. The man had said that there were
three or four small Indian villages nearby, but the question was in
which one did Bah live? He jumped down again from his pony and ran into
the store: "Say, Mister, do you know where that little girl lives?" he
asked.

"No," came the answer. "I never saw her before. The old folks seldom
bring their kids when they come to trade. Anyway not into the Post.
They leave 'em outside most times to watch the burro."

So a period of searching began for Billy. That day he visited one of
the villages. He looked at each hogan for Bah, and asked the Indians he
met, but she did not live there. They all shook their heads and grunted
when he asked:

"Bah, little girl, live here?"

It was very discouraging because he couldn't tell whether they had even
understood him. It grew late and he had to hurry home for fear of
worrying his parents.

The next day he started out early, determined to try the other
villages, and he left a puzzled father, who remarked to his wife as the
boy disappeared on a fast gallop:

[Illustration: BILLY RIDING THROUGH THE INDIAN VILLAGE]

"Bill isn't taking the interest in the Indians I had hoped he would."

But Mother smiled wisely.

"He's getting brown and strong, though," she answered, "and that's
better."



CHAPTER IV

THE PRAYER STICK


Bah was making a prayer stick. The prayer stick is an old custom among
the Indians, and every Indian child knows about it. But Bah had never
wanted anything badly enough to try the charm. Now, it was the only
thing left for her to do.

She took the branch of a tree, a straight branch which she cleaned, and
then she took the feather of an eagle. She tied the feather to the end
of the stick with a bit of wool from her loom. She wrapped the wool
around and around, and when the feather was secure in place she made a
hole in the ground and put the other end of the stick into the hole.
The stick stood up straight and the feather on top of it waved slightly
in the breeze.

[Illustration: THE PRAYER STICK]

Bah stood over her handiwork, raised her two arms skyward and prayed:
"Oh, Prayer Stick," she chanted in Navajo, "please take my prayer to
the sky on this eagle's feather! My prayer is for a doll!"

Now, you may think that Bah was idol-worshipping--that she didn't know
better than to pray to a stick and a feather! But this was not the
case. She knew very well that it was the Great Father who saw and heard
all, but her ancestors had all used the eagle feather to convey to the
Great Father their prayers and to tell Him their needs.

It was only a method of reaching her God. When her people wanted the
rain to fall they danced the great Eagle Dance for rain, and the Great
Father saw and understood. This prayer of Bah's was only her way of
asking what you would no doubt ask with your eyes closed and your hands
folded together.

She did not know that she was being watched. As she started her prayer,
Billy had approached the hogan. His first thought had been to call to
her, but somehow he had felt that what she was doing was not to be
interrupted, so he stopped.

It was not his intention to listen secretly to something he had no
right to hear. But as he stopped, she prayed so loudly that he could
not help hearing and, anyway, she did not seem to care for she went on
and on, regardless of the fact that she was out in broad daylight, in
front of her hogan, and anyone might pass before her door.

The prayer was repeated, and it was not until she had recited it many
times that she lowered her arms and with them her gaze from the
heavens, and beheld the white boy standing a few yards away. He stood
holding his pony's bridle with one hand, and the other hand was behind
his back. He looked at her questioningly and then at the Prayer Stick,
whose feather was waving back and forth. Bah smiled and said: "I make
this prayer stick to pray for doll."

[Illustration: "THEN BAH GIVE IT TO YOU."]

It was hard for the boy to grasp her meaning, for he knew so little
about the Indians and their queer customs. However, he smiled back at
her and, keeping his hand behind him, asked: "Where is the blanket you
made, Bah?"

"You like to see?" she questioned sweetly.

"Yes, please," said Billy.

Bah went towards the hogan and took from a nail the blanket she had
failed to sell. It was hanging on the outside wall of the hogan, a
proof that it was appreciated here if not at the Trading Post. Bah
brought it over and held it up for Billy to see.

"You like?" she asked innocently, cocking her head on one side like a
little sparrow.

"I like very much, Bah," answered Billy eagerly. "I like to--"

Bah did not allow him to finish his sentence, but, starting to drape
the blanket about his shoulders, she smilingly said: "Then Bah give to
you!"

The boy stood amazed while the little Indian girl patted the blanket
into place on his shoulders. She was giving him the blanket which she
had tried so hard to trade. It was really spoiling everything for him.
He had hoped to make quite a dramatic scene out of the trade, and the
doll was to be a genuine surprise. Now it looked as though Bah had
forgotten the doll and even the blanket, for she gave it up so easily
and was standing in front of him smiling sweetly.

"I'll trade you something for the blanket, Bah," he began.

"Oh, no--Bah give--no trade!"

It was settled. Billy could see that by the look in her eyes. He
brought forth his package.

"Then Billy will give Bah this," he exclaimed, holding out the bundle
to her. Solemnly Bah looked into his face. Her eyes seemed to ask many
questions but she said nothing. Billy understood. He tore the string,
undid the package, and the girl's eyes never left his face. It was as
though she had guessed what was there. She looked down and beheld in
his hands--the doll!

Her mouth opened and she formed only the word "Oh"--Billy put the
papoose doll into her arms. Slowly and solemnly she kissed it. Then,
turning quickly she ran to her mother who was weaving in the
accustomed place--

"Ma Shima, oh, Ma Shima! The papoose doll! She is mine. The Great
Father has sent her!"

[Illustration: "AND BILLY GIVE BAH THIS."]

It was all in Navajo and Billy did not understand. He watched her as
she sat down beside her mother and held up her new treasure. He heard
her mother emit sounds, though he could hardly see her lips moving. Had
he been able to understand Navajo he would have heard some very sweet
and happy words.

Then Bah's mother looked over at Billy. She beckoned him to come and he
came. Her black, beady eyes followed him until he stood before her. He
did not know what to think of the smile she gave him. Was it friendly,
or was she mocking him?

Billy had never before met an Indian woman, and he was puzzled by the
black eyes so deep and mysterious. Billy found himself staring, and
was suddenly aware of himself standing before a lady with his hat on.
He doffed his sombrero and in doing so he smiled. Bah's mother smiled
back, and said in a musical voice, "Sit down."

[Illustration: BAH AND THE PAPOOSE DOLL]

He sat beside her. Bah was on her other side, absorbed in her doll.
Billy smiled into the face of the Indian woman and she put her arm
about him and said:

"White boy good friend to Indian!"

[Illustration: "WHITE BOY GOOD FRIEND TO INDIAN!"]



CHAPTER V

AT BAH'S HOGAN


"Why do you call her 'Bah?' Is it because she watches the sheep?"

Billy was asking many questions of Bah's mother and he found her
anxious and ready to answer him. She had already told him her name,
which showed that she liked him, and Billy was pleased. He wanted to
hear many things about this family, especially about his little friend,
Bah.

Her mother shook her head. "No, not why. I tell you story why we call
her Bah." And this is what Bah's Mother told Billy:

Many Indians name their babies in this way: Soon after the baby is
born, the mother straps it to the baby cradle and goes to the door of
her hogan--what she first sees as she looks out upon the world, is what
she calls her newborn. If she sees a running deer--then the baby is
called "Running Deer." If her first glance falls upon a lazy bull,
resting himself, the baby will bear the name of "Sitting Bull."

[Illustration: WHEN BAH WAS A PAPOOSE]

Then, there is another way of naming the Indian baby, and this is the
way Bah was named. When she was a wee papoose, her mother would make
the bread and set her down beside the stone oven where she could watch
from her baby cradle. As you perhaps know, the Indian baby cradle is
very plain, and simply made. It is only a board upon which the baby is
strapped until he is able to walk. The Indians have some very good
reasons for doing this. They wish to train children to be
uncomfortable and not to cry.

Strapped as they are to this board, they are only able to move their
hands and must lie straight and stiff. This is also the reason why all
Indians are so straight. Then the Indian mother's mind is at rest, when
she can have her baby securely tied in the cradle, strapped to her
back, or if she puts him down any place she knows that he is safe. She
can hang him on the wall while she works, which was what Bah's mother
did when she made the bread.

Now, bread in Navajo is "Bah," and this is how they make it. First,
they take some corn and put it into a hollow stone. With another stone
they smash the corn until it is fine. They then mix it with water,
knead it and flatten it into small flat cakes which look like pancakes.
It then goes into the big stone oven, which is always out of doors, and
when it is cooked it is taken out and placed on a cool stone.

At this point Bah, who you see was at that time only a papoose, would
cry and reach out her little hands for some "Bah". As soon as Mother
would put a crisp piece into her little hand she would stop crying and
chew on it contentedly. So they called her "Bah" because she cried for
bread.

"So your name is 'Bread!' That's a nice name. And I'm so hungry that I
could eat you now!" said Billy, rising to his feet and making a
pretense at biting.

[Illustration: BAH GETS HER NAME]

Bah laughed and hid her face behind the new doll. Mother chuckled to
herself, as Indians do when they are amused. Then she said: "I make
some real 'Bah' for you."

"Oh, that would be fine!" said the boy.

Then, realizing that he had practically asked for it, he hung his head
and added: "But don't do it if it's too much trouble."

The remark seemed to amuse the Indian woman, for she chuckled again as
she arose, but she did not answer him. Instead, she began to prepare
for the making of the bread.

Billy watched the process with great interest, and ate with even more
interest when it was finished. The Bah was delicious, he thought.

It tasted like--no, it didn't taste like anything Billy had ever eaten
before.

After having done justice to the new food, the boy was shown in and
about the hogan by his little friend. She took him to her "play hogan."
It was made for her by her father and was just like the one they lived
in, except that it was only large enough for one child to fit into.

"We could have lots of fun here, Bah. I'd like to come again and play
with you. May I?" Billy asked.

"Yes, come much," answered Bah happily.

"And we'll play that I'm an Indian Chief and you are the Indian Mother,
and the doll--oh, we haven't named the doll yet, have we?" said Billy.

"No, doll no name yet," said Bah.

"Well, let's see, how shall we do it?" Billy mused. "Suppose you come
out of your play hogan and look around. The first thing you see will be
what we'll name her."

"Yes, I do," said Bah--and obediently she entered the small hogan.

"Now come out, but close your eyes," called Billy.

Out came the little girl, holding her papoose doll. She stood, with
closed eyes, in the door of her hogan, and waited for further
instructions.

"Open your eyes!" called the boy, "and tell me what you see!"

Bah's eyes opened slowly, dramatically. Her head was raised and as she
looked she saw a bluebird in a tree. Billy followed her gaze and saw
what she did.

[Illustration: NAMING THE PAPOOSE DOLL]

"How lucky!" thought he, "Now the child will have a beautiful name!"

But Bah looked down at her baby and smilingly said: "Bah name you
'Doli'."

Billy was horribly disappointed. "Oh, listen, Bah. Don't do that! Why
every girl calls a doll 'dolly.' That's common--name her 'Bluebird.'
You saw one, didn't you?"

Bah was still smiling as she said: "Yes, I see and I name papoose
'Bluebird' in Navajo--that is 'Doli'."

A grin spread from one of Billy's ears to the other. "That's the time
you fooled me!" said he.

They were laughing over Bah's joke when they saw some one coming
towards them. "My father come home," cried Bah, and ran to meet him.

As he came nearer Billy saw that he was very tall and very straight.
He wore white trousers tied below the knees with red ribbons, a sash
about his waist, and many beads hanging from his neck. His hair was
long and tied in the back, much the same as Bah's, with a white cloth.

He came over and held out his hand to Billy. He said: "I hear you good
to little Bah. Me Bah's father."

Billy was thrilled to shake the hand of such a fine big Indian, and to
find that he was treating him as a friend.

"He Big Chief," said Bah proudly.

"Oh, are you a Big Chief?" asked the boy. A thought began to flicker
through his mind. He would surprise his father--his father who was
hobnobbing daily with Big Chiefs and Medicine Men, and who thought
Billy was wasting his time.

He wouldn't say a word to Father, but he'd begin tonight and he'd write
a story, all about Bah, her mother and her father, the Big Chief. He'd
come back again tomorrow and learn more from them, for hadn't Bah said
"Come much"--which meant he was welcome.

"Well, I have had such a good time with Bah--Mr.-a-a"

"My name 'Fighting Bull,'" said the brave (as Indian men are called).

"I know why you're called Fighting Bull," said Billy, sagely. "One time
when you were little your Mother must have seen a bull fight!"



CHAPTER VI

BILLY STARTS HIS STORY


The next morning found Billy fully dressed and ready to leave before
his parents were even awake. He could hardly wait for them to be astir
and as soon as he heard his mother's step in her room he knocked at the
door. Mother opened it and stood amazed.

"Why, Billy--at this hour! What do you mean?"

"I'm going out, Mother, and I didn't want to leave before you were
awake."

"But, dear, you can't go so early, and without your breakfast."

"Oh, that's all right. Peanuts and I will go to the Trading Post and
get breakfast. You see, Mother, I have to--"

Just then there came a growl from within the room. It came from Father.

"What is the commotion? And at such an hour! Billy, what's the
excitement?"

"Nothing, Father--only it's such a fine morning and I want a ride."

"Let him go, Mother. He is only keeping me from my hard-earned rest.
When one works one needs sleep. Billy will never need it!"

Billy was sharp enough to understand his father's words and, smiling
shrewdly to himself, he clutched a paper which reposed in his pocket,
but he only called out, "Goodby, Father."

His mother kissed him with the parting words: "Do be careful, Billy,
and don't go too far."

"No further than usual, Mother," answered Billy.

And then, afraid that Mother might ask something, he ran off, waving
his hand and sighing a deep sigh of relief.

Billy had spent some restless hours during the night, thinking about
the story he was to write. As he was only a little boy and couldn't
write very well, and as this was his very first story, he was a little
bit afraid of the results.

But the determination to surprise Father and Mother had grown within
him ever since the idea had come to him yesterday at Bah's home. Father
thought Billy couldn't do it! Well, he'd show him! He'd listen while
Mrs. Fighting Bull told him things, and hadn't he already learned lots
about them?

[Illustration: BAH'S MOTHER WEAVING NAVAJO BLANKET]

In fact, he'd started his story! He'd started it with a poem (at least
he thought it a poem) and that is what he clutched in his pocket when
Father chided him. He was going to show it to Bah and her mother.

He was going to ask them what they thought of it and he was going to
tell them all about the contest, and how he'd planned to win the radio
without telling his parents!

How astonished they'd be, and how Father would stare when he saw the
radio arrive with his son's name engraved thereon--

"Winner of Composition Contest."

His dreams accompanied Billy all the way to the Trading Post. There he
had a hurried breakfast of milk and crackers, allowed Peanuts to graze
a bit in the clover, and after buying some funny chocolates in the
forms of objects, animals, birds and fishes which he thought would
amuse Bah, he was off in search of his new-made friends--and
information.

[Illustration: BAH'S FATHER STRETCHING A SKIN]

Upon arriving at the hogan he found Bah's mother already seated at her
loom. Fighting Bull was stretching a goat's skin outside the hogan
door.

After greeting the Indians, Billy looked around for Bah. She was
nowhere to be seen.

"Where's Bah?" he asked of her mother. The woman shook her head, the
usual amused smile playing over her features. "Not here."

The Indians had not seemed particularly pleased to see him, he thought,
and his heart was beginning to sink. But then Bah's mother pointed
towards the play hogan. "Over there. She play mother and papoose.
See?"

With these words, Mrs. Fighting Bull laughed out loud, a sort of
chuckle it was, but nevertheless she did laugh, and Billy felt
reassured. He looked and saw Bah.

She was emerging from her play hogan, and there was something on her
back. He couldn't tell what it was, but as she approached he saw that
it was a large board with a blanket strapped around it. Something was
in the blanket, and that something was heavy, too, for Bah was
obviously weighted down.

"What's that?" asked Billy, puzzled.

"That my papoose," laughed Bah, and turning her back towards Billy he
saw, strapped cozily to the papoose cradle, a baby sheep! It was
bleating, "Baa, Baa--"

[Illustration: BAH'S PAPOOSE]

"He knows your name," laughed Billy, stroking the small woolly head.

Bah sat down with her burden on her back and Billy sat beside her. The
Indian mother continued to smile to herself as she went on weaving.

"Me glad you come," said Bah, smiling her friendly smile.

"Are you?" questioned Billy. "I couldn't wait to get here. You know,
I've started to write a story--a real story like Father writes. It's
going to be all about you!"

"Me?" the little girl pointed to herself. She realized that this was
something important, for the white boy was excited and although the
affair was very vague to her, she mustered up the enthusiasm necessary.

"I've written a poem to start it with. Want to hear it?"

"Oh, yes," Bah's eyes grew big. Just what a poem was didn't matter. It
was important to know that Billy had written one. So he read--

     "Bah, Bah Indian girl,
     Have you any bread?
     Yes sir, yes sir,
     That's what I was fed.
     When I was a papoose
     I cried to my ma,
     So she gave me bread,
     And now my name is 'Bah'!"

There was a loud explosion from the corner where Mrs. Fighting Bull was
weaving. Billy's face grew red. Mrs. Fighting Bull was laughing at him.
Oh, now he knew he must have done something wrong!

The Indian woman composed herself and beckoning the boy over, she
said: "You write good words. Tell me more."

Billy had a great deal to learn about Indians; he was beginning to
realize that. Evidently Bah's mother was kindly disposed towards him
but she had a queer way of laughing at everything, which was hard for
Billy to understand.

Still, he thought, it was better to laugh at everything than to be
cross and angry. Mrs. Fighting Bull was a jolly woman, that was all,
and Billy moved up close to her and smiled up into her face.

"Gee, I'm glad you like it. I thought, when you laughed, you were
making fun of me. You see, I never wrote anything before, and this
story has just got to be good, because----"

And then he told Bah and her mother of his desire to win the contest
and the prize attached to it.

"You like I tell you more?" asked the Indian woman.

"That's just what I'd like to have you do, if you would," answered the
boy writer.

"Well, I tell you."

With no more ado, Mrs. Fighting Bull started talking as Billy sat and
listened to her words.



CHAPTER VII

ALL ABOUT THE INDIANS


The Navajo Indians live in hogans. That, you already have heard--and
you know what a hogan looks like. But all Indian tribes do not use the
same kind of dwelling places.

The Pueblo, Hopi and other peaceful tribes live in what are called
pueblos. They are houses built of adobe and they are built to resemble
a child's stone blocks when he has piled one on top of the other. To
reach the top of a pueblo one must climb the ladders which are set up
against the outside of the building.

The Pueblo villages are different from the Navajo villages. They are
composed of long rows of these pinkish adobe block houses, and the
Indian tribes who live therein are, as I have said, peaceful.

Can you imagine why, being as they are of a peaceful nature, these
tribes build as they do? It is so that they can be protected from
warlike tribes, in their many storied houses. Then, too, the tribes
which build pueblos do not wander, as the warlike tribes do. The
pueblos are stationary, and they are built to be permanent homes. They
are built, mainly, by the women and children, who do all the manual
work--while the men often sit at home weaving garments and knitting
stockings.

[Illustration: THE PIPE OF PEACE]

The tepees are the abode of warlike Indians, such as the Sioux,
Apaches, etc. They wander and so they build temporary dwellings which,
at a moment's notice, may be transported quickly and easily from one
location to another.

In the East there are other Indian tribes, and also in Canada. Then, in
Mexico, the Indians build straw huts.

There are hundreds of tribes of Indians and each tribe has a different
language. That is why the sign language came into existence. It is used
when a member of one tribe meets a member of another tribe. They cannot
understand each other's language, so they talk with their hands.

When the Indian chiefs gather they smoke the pipe of peace. This is
usually done to celebrate some victory, or upon the occasion of a visit
from a member of another tribe.

The men sit around a fire in a circle and pass the long pipe from one
to the other. As each man receives it he utters a sound or nods his
head, proceeds to take a puff, and passes it to his neighbor. It is all
done silently and quietly, but there is a wealth of meaning in this
very solemn performance.

[Illustration: THE FIRE MAKER]

The Indians, in older days, made fire entirely by friction. By the
rubbing together of two pieces of wood, most of the tribes caused fire
to appear--but some had elaborate devices made of wood and string. The
Navajos used a thin pole which they twirled around by using a string
tied to a stick.

Today, the Indians use matches just as we do, but most families still
keep their fire-makers.

The Navajos do not use feathers and do not make chiefs by crowning
them. But many of the other tribes create their chiefs by placing the
crown of tall feathers, which you have often seen in pictures, upon the
head of the "brave," and saying "I make you 'Big Chief Flying Eagle,'"
or whatever the name may be.

[Illustration: CROWNING A BIG CHIEF]

The eagle is much venerated by the Indians. We have seen how Bah used a
prayer stick made of an eagle feather.

In the Eagle Dance, the dancer paints his body red, black and white,
and wears a dance skirt and bonnet of eagle feathers.

The dance is performed as a ceremonial, mostly as a plea for rain. The
dancers imitate almost every movement of the great eagle. They soar,
they hover as an eagle would hover over the fields. They spread their
wings and move about in a great circle.

This and the Sun Dance are the two most important and interesting
dances of the Indians; the Sun Dance is performed in the spring,
celebrating the return of the growing season, and the growth of the
corn.

"Oh, I hope I can remember all that," sighed Billy, when Mrs. Fighting
Bull finished talking.

She turned to her weaving without answering him, and he turned to Bah,
saying: "Come, Bah! Let us play over at your hogan and you pretend to
make me a Big Chief!"

"Yes, come," said Bah, rising.

They started over to their play house. From out the play hogan Bah
pulled forth some Navajo blankets and then they both set to work to
make a feather crown. Having no feathers (the Navajos not using them)
they made their crown of branches.

It was a large and weighty object when they finished with it and Billy
was, indeed, a queer sight when Bah placed it upon his head. The big
blanket was wrapped about him, and from beneath the crown peered his
freckled face. With all due ceremony Bah raised her eyes to heaven and
chanted: "I make you Big Chief Spots-In-The-Face!"

It was a very serious moment for them. Billy had become a chief, and
his next move was to propose the smoking of the pipe of peace. From his
pocket Billy pulled a chocolate pipe. It was done up in silver paper.
Bah was impressed as he carefully unwrapped and handed it to her.

"You smoke first," he said.

She took it in her hands and putting it to her mouth pretended to draw
in the smoke. She handed it to Billy, but he proceeded to bite out a
piece, much to the astonishment of his playmate, who stared at him in
wonderment.

[Illustration: BAH AND BILLY SMOKE THE PIPE OF PEACE]

"You do that, too, Bah, it's good," Billy mumbled with his mouth full.

Bah shrank back. "No, me no eat pipe, me smoke!"

Billy couldn't help laughing.

"Oh, but this isn't a real pipe--it's chocolate!"

Still Bah was reluctant to try.

"Well," said Billy, digging into his pocket for the rest of the candy.
"Here's another, the same--only it's not in the shape of a pipe. Try
it."

Bah took the candy and looked at it.

"Fish!" she gasped and dropped it.

"Well, what's the matter with that?" asked Billy, greatly disturbed by
her evident horror.

"Bah no eat fish. No Navajo eat fish!" "Tell me why," said Billy, now
amused and interested.

Bah did not answer, but pointed over to her mother. She hung her head
shyly. Billy didn't like to press her, so, dragging his blanket, and
with his crown over one ear, he stumbled over to the loom and stood
before Mrs. Fighting Bull with the query: "Why don't Navajos like
fish?"

Mrs. Fighting Bull did not smile, for once, and replied: "Not because
no like! No eat because ancestors once turned into fish. If Navajo eat
fish, he eat ancestor!"

Satisfied with this explanation, Billy thanked her and trotted back to
his friend. "I understand now, Bah," he said. "But you see this isn't a
real fish, it's candy! You try."

He held it up to her, but he could see how she shrank from the thought
of eating anything that was even the shape of fish. So he picked out a
bird and gave it to her. After she had sampled the chocolate she was
delighted to finish the whole piece, and when that was eaten, she said:
"Now me smoke pipe of peace."

"Yes," said Billy, "and this time you'll eat a piece of the pipe, won't
you?"

He laughed loudly at his own joke, but Bah was too absorbed in her new
found game. When Billy reached for the pipe, expecting to receive it
for his turn, he saw that the little girl had put the whole pipe into
her mouth and was munching the chocolate, her cheeks puffed out and a
twinkle in her eye! Billy stared in surprise.

"Why, Bah, you bad girl. You ate up all the pipe!"

But they soon found another game to replace the "Peace Pipe" and played
together happily until it was time for Billy to go home.

Before leaving he remembered that he had not thanked the Indian woman
for telling him so much of interest. He ran back to where she was
sitting, and, drawing from his pocket the chocolate candies, he offered
them to her, saying: "Thanks so much for your nice story. Won't you
have some candy?"

She took some and smiled at him. Then she said: "Write nice story about
Indians. All white men no think Indians good."

Billy was puzzled for a moment to know what she meant. Then it dawned
upon him that the Indians were often spoken of as cruel and savage.
Well, he'd "tell the world" in his story that this family was kind and
civilized. He said: "Oh, yes, I'll say everything I think about you,
and that will be good!"

Then, suddenly bethinking himself of a word he'd once heard, he asked:
"Isn't an Indian woman called a 'Squaw'?"

Bah's mother shook her head and a slight frown--the first Billy had
seen--appeared between her eyes.

[Illustration: THE "SQUAWKER"]

"No. Indian woman no like to be called Squaw! Not very nice! In
reservation she fight when man call that!"

"Well, I'll remember and never use the word 'Squaw' again," promised
Billy.

Just then an Indian mother appeared in the doorway of her hogan. The
papoose upon her back was crying loudly, and Billy looked roguishly at
Mrs. Fighting Bull and asked: "Is the baby called a 'Squawker'?"



CHAPTER VIII

WHO WINS THE RADIO?


For many days Billy worked diligently at his composition. He took care
to do his writing away from home, as he cherished the thought of
surprising Mother and Father.

Then, too, he had conceived another idea. It happened to pop into his
head one evening when he was returning from Bah's home. It was such a
good idea that he wondered he hadn't thought of it before.

And so, as I have said, he worked, and no one but Peanuts knew what he
was doing, and Peanuts was sworn to secrecy. As he would prepare to
leave his secluded spot out on the prairie where he did his writing,
Billy would say to Peanuts: "Now, we'll never say a word! We'll keep
this to ourselves, won't we?"

[Illustration: FOR DAYS BILLY WORKED ON HIS STORY]

And Peanuts was most agreeable. Why not? The days had been pleasure
since his master had decided to allow him to graze all day long instead
of asking him to gallop over the plains. Yes, indeed, the plan suited
Peanuts down to the ground (where, by the way, he constantly kept his
nose.)

Billy's nose was buried in his writing and he chewed the pencil as
steadily as Peanuts chewed the dry nourishment he found. But at last
the task was over, the manuscript sent in to the magazine, and Billy
was again paying his respects to the Fighting Bull family. Peanuts was
the only regretful one when the story was finished, and sent away.
Billy sighed a sigh of relief and the first day that he put in an
appearance at the hogan, Bah squealed with joy to see him returning.

Many happy days ensued, in which the Indian girl showed the boy new
games and ways of playing which she, little lonely one, had devised by
herself.

Each evening Billy would come home with the same question on his lips:
"Has my magazine arrived?"

But New York is a long way from Arizona, and it was many weeks before
the magazine, in which the winning story was to appear, at last came.

It was one evening after Billy had had a particularly exciting day
chasing buffaloes (in the form of tame sheep) with Bah, that he came
home to find his magazine awaiting him. It had not been opened and was
lying on his little desk. It was addressed to him--and inside it
was--maybe--his story! He longed to find out, but he couldn't move his
fingers to open the wrapper.

He suddenly grew hot all over and realized then how he longed to see
that story inside those covers. If he had been an Indian instead of a
white boy he would have made a prayer stick and prayed via the eagle
feather to the Great Father.

The next morning Father and Mother found Billy curled up in a big chair
in the living room poring over his magazine. They could not see his
face.

Father took up his paper, but before starting to read he remarked:
"Who's the lucky winner of the radio, Son?"

Billy did not answer, but arose from his chair and brought the magazine
over, to Father. Father glanced at the page with a wicked smile, and
remarked: "Needless to say, it wasn't a chap named William!"

Billy, his head drooping, left the room, and Mother felt sorry for him.
So did Father. In fact I think Father was sorry for what he had said,
as he got up and called him back.

It was then that Billy told Father what he had done--all about it from
the first day that the idea had occurred to him until the moment when
he had, with trembling fingers, opened the magazine and found....

"You're a good boy, Bill," said Father, "and I've been wronging you."

Mother was about to make a fuss over him, so, allowing her only time
enough for one kiss, he grabbed his hat. Then with the parting words,
"I'm going to see the Fighting Bulls--goodbye," he made a dash for the
door.

"Some day maybe you'll take me, Bill," called Father after him, "I'd
like to meet the Fighting Bulls, and their calf. She must be a smart
little kid!"

Then the parents looked at each other and Mother's eyes were just a
little bit dewy. She smiled and shook her finger at Father: "I know
another Fighting Bull," she said.

"Yes, dear," said Father humbly, "and he has a splendid and plucky
little calf!"

At the hogan there was much excitement. As Peanuts came galloping down
the village "street" his rider saw a most unusual sight.

Chief Fighting Bull, his wife and small daughter were all grouped about
an object which seemed to be attracting them. So much did it attract
them that they were talking in Navajo faster and louder than Billy had
ever heard them talk.

The boy jumped down from his pony and walked up to the family circle.
He saw that the object of their interest was a large wooden express
box, and written across it were the words:

"Bah, The Little Indian Weaver,
  Daughter of Chief Fighting Bull,
    Navajo Reservation, near Tuba, Arizona."

[Illustration: "IS IT FOR ME?"]

"This came today," said the Chief to Billy, and Bah held up an envelope
which she clutched in her hand.

"And see--letter to Bah."

Billy asked: "Why don't you open it?"

"Yes, will do," replied the girl. At the same time as Bah and Billy
were opening the letter, the Chief, aided by his wife, was opening the
large box.

"You read letter for me, please," smiled Bah.

Billy took the letter--but just then the box was opened and inside it
the astonished family beheld a radio!

"What this?" asked Fighting Bull.

Said Billy wisely: "It's a radio--you know, you can listen to music
and everything. It's lots of fun. Come on, we'll fix it up!"

[Illustration: "WITHOUT YOU I COULDN'T HAVE WRITTEN IT."]

With Billy's instructions the Chief set up the radio. It was a portable
set and as soon as they attached the aerial and Billy turned the dials
the sound of fine music began to float on the air.

"Alive!" shrieked Bah, turned on her heels, and fled!

Billy, still holding the unopened letter, ran after her. He found her
hidden in a thicket and brought her back to her parents, who stood
transfixed before the radio, which was still sending forth music.

"Don't be afraid, Bah," said Billy. "It's not this box making the
noise. The music comes through the air from a big city!"

The Chief and his wife were almost as impressed as Bah, but they did
not show their feelings. They could only stand and stare while Billy,
holding on to Bah with one hand for fear that she would run away
again, read the following letter:

     "Dear Little Bah:

     Your story 'The Little Indian Weaver,' written by yourself
     about yourself, has won the Composition Contest. The prize,
     a radio, we are sending you today. It was a great pleasure
     to receive such a charming little story from a real Indian
     girl. The white children who read it will, we are sure,
     enjoy it, and learn a great deal from you. Thank you, and we
     hope you will like the radio!

                         The Children's Magazine."

"But--but," said Bah, "I not write story!"

Billy put his arm around her shoulders and smiling down at her said:
"No, but I sent it in your name because if it hadn't been for you and
your mother and father I never could have written it!"

[Illustration: "I PUT INDIAN FLAG ON MY SINGING BOX."]

As the strains of music floated through the air, attracting the sheep
from the prairie, two dreamy children sat beside the radio, which was
perched on the top of a packing box, and listened eagerly.

[Illustration: THE WHITE CHILD LOVES HIS INDIAN FRIENDS]

Bah had outgrown her fear of the "Singing Box" as she called the radio,
and each day she and Billy would enjoy songs and music from the
city--strange sounds, some of them, to the little Indian girl.

But to Billy it had become a greater joy than he ever had anticipated
to watch her rapture with the new toy.

One day he found a stick with feathers stuck on top of the radio, and
he asked her what it meant.

"Bah put flag on Singing Box. That is Indian flag!"

Billy never ceased learning about the Indians, their customs and their
interesting ways.

Perhaps the Fighting Bulls also were learning. They learned what many
Indians do not know--that the white child loves his brother--the first
American.

       *       *       *       *       *


Transcriber's Notes

Page 85: Possibly missing "second" before "time" in the sentence:
  "That's the time you fooled me!" said he.

Page 90: Retained "Goodby" but possibly a typo for "goodbye."
  (he only called out, "Goodby, Father.")

Page 123: Retained "poring" but possibly a typo for "pouring."
  (Billy curled up in a big chair in the living room poring over his)





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Little Indian Weaver" ***

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