Part 3

"Burn some. The rest talk then. White man's leaves not want to tell about white man. Rita must make them talk. Old braves in camp say they know. Many times the talking leaves tell the pale-faces all about Indians. I Tell where go. Tell what do. Tell how to find and kill. Bad medicine."

The "old braves" of many an Indian band have puzzled their heads over the white man's way of learning things and sending messages to a distance, and Red Wolf's ideas had nothing unusual in them. If the talking leaves could say anything at all, they could be made to tell a chief and his warriors the precise things they wanted to know.

Ni-ha-be's talk with her brother lasted until he pointed to the camp fire, where Many Bears was resting after his first attack upon the results of Mother Dolores's cookery.

"Great chief eat. Good time talk to him. Go now."

There was no intentional lack of politeness in the sharp, overbearing tone of Red Wolf. It was only the ordinary manner of a warrior speaking to a squaw. It would therefore have been very absurd for Ni-ha-be to get out of temper about it; but her manner and the toss of her head as she turned away were decidedly wanting in the submissive meekness to be expected of her age and sex.

"It won't be long before I have a lodge of my own," she said, positively. "I'll have Rita come and live with me. Red Wolf shall not make her burn the talking leaves. Maybe she can make them talk to me. My eyes are better than hers. She's nothing but a pale-face, if she did get brought into my father's lodge."

A proud-spirited maiden was Ni-ha-be, and one who wanted a little more of "her own way" than she could have under the iron rule of her great father and the watchful eyes of Mother Dolores.

"I'll go to the bushes and see Rita. Our supper won't be ready yet for a good while."

It would be at least an hour, but Ni-ha-be had never seen a clock in her life, and knew nothing at all about "hours." There is no word for such a thing in the Apache language.

She was as light of foot as an antelope, and her moccasins hardly made a sound upon the grass as she parted the bushes and looked in upon Rita's hiding-place.

"Weeping? The talking leaves have been scolding her. I will burn them. They shall not say things to make her cry."

In a moment more her arms were around the neck of her adopted sister. It was plain enough that the two girls loved each other dearly.

"Rita, what is the matter? Have they said strong words to you?"

"No, Ni-ha-be; good words, all of them. Only I can not understand them all."

"Tell me some. See if I can understand them. I am the daughter of a great chief."

Ni-ha-be did not know how very little help the wealth of a girl's father can give her in a quarrel with her school-books. But just such ideas as hers have filled the silly heads of countless young white people of both sexes.

"I can tell you some of it."

"Tell me what made you cry."

"I can't find my father. He is not here. Not in any of them."

"You don't need him now. He was only a pale-face. Many Bears is a great chief. He is your father now."

Something seemed to tell Rita that she would not be wise to arouse her friend's national jealousy. It was better to turn to some of the pictures, and try to explain them. Very funny explanations she gave, too, but she at least knew more than Ni-ha-be, and the latter listened seriously enough.

"Rita, was there ever such a mule as that?--one that could carry a pack under his skin?"

It was Rita's turn now to be proud, for that was one of the pictures she had been able to understand. She had even read enough to be able to tell Ni-ha-be a good deal about a camel.

It was deeply interesting, but the Apache maiden suddenly turned from the page to exclaim,

"Rita, Red Wolf says the talking leaves must tell you about the blue-coat soldiers or he will burn them up."

"I'm going to keep them."

"I won't let him touch them."

"But, Ni-ha-be, they do tell about the soldiers. Look here."

She picked up another of the magazines, and turned over a few leaves.

"There they are. All mounted and ready to march."

Sure enough, there was a fine wood-cut of a party of cavalry moving out of camp with wagons.

Over went the page, and there was another picture.

Ten times as many cavalry on the march, followed by an artillery force with cannon.

"Oh, Rita! Father must see that."

"Of course he must; but that is not all."

Another leaf was turned, and there was a view of a number of Indian chiefs in council at a fort, with a strong force of both cavalry and infantry drawn up around them.

Rita had not read the printed matter on any of those pages, and did not know that it was only an illustrated description of campaigning and treaty-making on the Western plains. She was quite ready to agree with Ni-ha-be that Many Bears ought to hear at once what the talking leaves had to say about so very important a matter.

It was a good time to see him now, for he was no longer very hungry, and word had come in from the hunters that they were having good success. A fine prospect of a second supper, better than the first, was just the thing to make the mighty chief good-tempered, and he was chatting cozily with some of his "old braves" when Rita and Ni-ha-be drew near.

They beckoned to Red Wolf first.

"The talking leaves have told Rita all you wanted them to. She must speak to father."

Red Wolf's curiosity was strong enough to make him arrange for that at once, and even Many Bears himself let his face relax into a grim smile as the two girls came timidly nearer the circle of warriors.

After all, they were the pets and favorites of the chief; they were young and pretty, and so long as they did not presume to know more than warriors and counsellors they might be listened to. Besides, there were the talking leaves, and Rita's white blood, bad as it was for her, might be of some use in such a matter.

"Ugh!"

Many Bears looked at the picture of the cavalry squad with a sudden start. "No lie this time. Camp right here. Just so many blue-coats. Just so many wagons. Good. Now where go?"

Rita turned the leaf, and her Indian father was yet more deeply interested.

"Ugh! More blue-coats. Great many. No use follow. Get all killed. Big guns. Indians no like 'em. Ugh!"

If the cavalry expedition was on its way to join a larger force, it would indeed be of no use to follow it, and Many Bears was a cautious leader as well as a brave one.

Rita's news was not yet all given, however, and when the eyes of the chief fell upon the picture of the "treaty-making" he sprang to his feet.

"Ugh! Big talk come. Big presents. Other Apaches all know--all be there--all get blanket, gun, tobacco, new axe. Nobody send us word, because we off on hunt beyond the mountains. Now we know, we march right along. Rest horse, kill game, then ride. Not lose our share of presents."

Rita could not have told him his mistake, and even if she had known it, she would have been puzzled to explain away the message of the talking leaves.

Did not every brave in the band know that that first picture told the truth about the cavalry? Why, then, should they doubt the correctness of the rest of it?

No; a treaty there was to be, and presents were to come from the red man's "great father at Washington," and that band of Apaches must manage to be on hand and secure all that belonged to it, and as much more as possible.

Red Wolf had nothing more to say about burning up leaves which had talked so well, and his manner toward Rita was almost respectful as he led her and Ni-ha-be away from the group of great men that was now gathering around the chief. Red Wolf was too young a brave to have any business to remain while gray heads were in council. A chief would almost as soon take advice from a squaw as from a "boy."

Mother Dolores had heard nothing of all this, but her eyes had not missed the slightest thing. She had even permitted a large slice of deer meat to burn to a crisp in her eager curiosity.

"What did they say to the chief?" was her first question to Rita.

But Ni-ha-be answered her with: "Ask the warriors. If we talk too much, we shall get into trouble."

"You must tell me."

"Not until after supper. Rita, don't let's tell her a word unless she cooks for us and gives us all we want. She made us get our own supper last night."

"You came late. I did not tell your father. I gave you enough. I am very good to you."

"No," said Rita; "sometimes you are cross, and we don't get enough to eat. Now you shall cook us some corn-bread and some fresh meat. I am tired of dried buffalo: it is tough."

The curiosity of Dolores was getting hotter and hotter, and she thought again of the wonderful leaf which had spoken to her. She wanted to ask Rita questions about that too, and she had learned by experience that there was more to be obtained from her willful young friends by coaxing than in any other way.

"I will get your supper now, while the chiefs are talking. It shall be a good supper--good enough for Many Bears. Then you shall tell me all I ask."

"Of course I will," said Rita.

A fine fat deer had been deposited near that camp fire by one of the first hunters that had returned, and Mother Dolores was free to cut and carve from it, but her first attempt at a supper for the girls did not succeed very well. It was not on account of any fault of hers, however, or because the venison steak she cut and spread upon the coals, while her corn-bread was frying, did not broil beautifully.

No; the temporary disappointment of Ni-ha-be and Rita was not the fault of Mother Dolores. Their mighty father was sitting where the odor of that cookery blew down upon him, and it made him hungry again before the steak was done. He called Red Wolf to help him, for the other braves were departing to their own camp fires, and in a minute or so more there was little left of the supper intended for the two young squaws. Dolores patiently cut and began to broil another slice, but that was Red Wolf's first supper, and it was the third slice which found its way into the lodge, after all.

The strange part of it was that not even Ni-ha-be dreamed of complaining. It was according to custom.

There was plenty of time to eat supper after it came, for Dolores was compelled to look out for her own. She would not have allowed any other squaw to cook for her, any more than she herself would have condescended to fry a cake for any one below the rank of her own husband and his family.

Mere common braves and their squaws could take care of themselves, and it was of small consequence to Dolores whether they had anything to eat or not. There is more "aristocracy" among the wild red men than anywhere else, and they have plenty of white imitators who should know better.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

SHADOW PANTOMIMES.

What are the boys and girls going to do Thanksgiving night when dinner is over, the nuts and raisins all gone, the last sugar-plum eaten, and it isn't yet time to go to bed? Suppose they try Shadow Pantomimes.

Draw a white screen across the parlor, hanging down to the floor, darken the part of the room where the audience are, and place one strong light at the extreme end, behind the stage, so that the shadows of the actors will be thrown on the screen when they pass or stand behind it. The subjects have to be guessed by the audience. A Shadow Pantomime has the advantage that all sorts of contrivances can be used, and the appearance of the players disguised, so that the lookers-on will soon want to see what is at the other side of the screen, where the sight of card-board cats and donkeys and paper noses and chins would be a sad disillusion. The player should in general keep near the screen, but never touch or shake it; and as there is no scenery except such shadows as bushes or fences, no scene is announced, but all has to be guessed from the action of the figures. The subjects should, of course, be easy to guess, as the audience enjoys better what is recognized quickly. We suggest to ingenious shadow-makers as possible subjects: _Cinderella_--the child and the godmother, the dance, the fitting of the shoe. _The Lion and the Unicorn_--the lion's mane and tail and the unicorn's horn being the chief distinctions, and the crown being represented on a pole in the middle while they fight; afterward the representation of the last lines are easy: "Some gave them white bread, and some gave them brown; some gave them plum-cake, and drummed them out of town." _Punch and Judy_, with Judy's large cap and Punch's hump, pointed cap, and long nose and chin, and of course a Toby, well cut out of mill-board or card-board. _The House that Jack built_, with a constant show of the objects in succession, some of them only cut models, held at a distance from the screen so as to enlarge the shadows: this would be necessary, for instance, in showing the house with its bright windows, and it is well for such subjects to draw a curtain across the lower part of the stage, and place a screen at each side, so as to leave only a small square of light for exhibiting the shadows, while the hands are hidden behind the screens. _Sing a Song of Sixpence_, the pie being the shadow of a packed clothes-basket, the king and queen wearing crowns, and the blackbird of the last verses being swung on the end of a thread so as to hit off a paper nose.

Most of the nursery rhymes admit of being shown in shadows, and also such ballads as the "Mistletoe Bough." There may be, for a change at the end, a few shadow charades, such as Snow-ball, Cox-comb, Asterisk (ass-tea-risk), Ring-let, Cat-as-(ass)-trophy, etc., done quickly and guessed easily.

KING HAZELNUT

King Hazelnut, of Weisnichtwo, A jolly King was he, And all his subjects, high and low, Were happy as could be.

They feasted every day on pie And pudding and plum-cake, And never broke the law--for why?-- There was no law to break.

Oh, jolly was King Hazelnut, Especially at noon; Then many a caper he would cut, And hum a merry tune.

And from his golden throne he'd hop, And fling his sceptre down, And on the table, like a top, Would spin his golden crown.

Then he would slap his sides and sing Unto his serving-man, "That rolly-poly pudding bring As lively as you can."

A HAPPY THANKSGIVING and a splendid time to all our boys and girls!

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GLENCOE, LOUISIANA.

Viola E. would perhaps find the names most familiar to your young Creole subscribers in Louisiana as unaccustomed as are those of which she writes to the ears of children outside of Virginia. In this house the young girl to whom YOUNG PEOPLE is addressed was christened Elmire, but is known only by her _petit nom_ of "Fillette." Her mother's name is Gracieuse--is it not musical? An impish little ebon-hued maid in the yard is Mariquite. Another, with gleaming ivories, is Yélie. A cousin who comes often, and is nearly old enough to cast his vote, is yet "Bébé," despite his sponsors having called him Édouard. And "Guisson," his brother, who would guess his name to be Émile?

A little knowledge of creole interiors would correct the ideas so prevalent as to creole indolence. Away down here, on a sluggish little bayou that makes its way through the plantation to the not-far-distant Gulf, these young girls, though not perhaps speaking so good English as their Virginia sisters of Anglo-Saxon extraction, having learned it rather from the lips of negro servants than from their parents, are, at any rate, their peers in womanly accomplishments, if practical knowledge of the details of a _ménage_ constitutes such--the ability to wash, starch, iron, straighten a room, make a gumbo, mix a cake and bake it, etc. The very neatly made calico dresses they wear are their own handiwork. After five hours spent in the school-room with their _institutrice_, and the required time given to the practice of their piano, one of them is amusing herself by making a quantity of under-clothing for a beloved little _filleule_. A _basse-cour_ of about six hundred turkeys, ducks, and chickens is cared for almost wholly by the two girls and their mother. Domestic virtues these, worthy even of Yankee girls, are they not? Just as much, though, as Yankee girls or as Virginia girls do these young Louisianians claim their heritage as Americans and their place among your "Young People."

L'INSTITUTRICE.

We have read this letter with great pleasure, and now we would like to hear from somebody about our Western girls; and the New England girls too will find a corner waiting if they choose to write.

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HARPER, IOWA.

I can now read all the long stories in YOUNG PEOPLE. I liked "Tim and Tip" very much, and think the bear hunt was quite funny. I had a pair of white doves given me as a present. One of them, in trying to fly through the screen door, broke its neck, and the other flew away with some wild ones. So I lost my pets, and was very sorry. I am sorry for Jimmy Brown. He makes me think of myself sometimes. My sister teaches piano music. My two brothers play in the Cornet Band, and I am learning music; so we have plenty of music. We all go to school.

HARPER R.

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MANHATTAN, KANSAS.

I have three brothers and two sisters. This summer we all went to New Mexico. We stopped at Las Vegas, and saw the Hot Springs, and the water in the springs was so hot that we could not hold our hands in it. And we stopped over Sunday at Santa Fe, and saw the Corpus Christi procession. We saw a horned toad that ran as fast as a horse. We brought back two donkeys, and mine threw me off, and broke my two front teeth. Uncle Henry gave us some saddles. Our baby is only two months old, and has red hair. I liked "Toby Tyler" best of any. I am nine years old. My name is

MAGGIE P.

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ROSA MAYFIELD'S LOSS.

Let me introduce my readers to a bright, sunny-haired girl who on a pleasant morning in July is playing in a large garden. She first sits down in a pretty little arbor, and sews for a short time; then she puts her work away, and goes to plant some seed which old James, the gardener, has given her. Suddenly she hears some one calling to her from the house.

"Rosa! Rosa! come here a minute, my child."

"Yes, mamma," said Rosa; "I will come as soon as I have put away my tools."

When she reached the sitting-room, her mamma was not there, but on running to the bedroom, she found her, all dressed to go out, and putting on her gloves. As soon as she saw Rosa, she said: "Would you like to go to the cattle show with me, dear, and then go to your cousins, in the country for tea? The carriage will be round presently."

"Oh yes, indeed I should, mamma," said the little girl, as she skipped away to nurse to be dressed.

"Oh, you darling mamma," said Rosa, as she settled herself in the carriage beside her mother. "I always enjoy going to tea with May and Clara Haliburton so much! and I have never been to a cattle show;" and here she clapped her hands and laughed so loud that her mother had to tell her to be quiet, as the passers-by would think she must be a very badly behaved little girl.

At last, they reached the cattle show. Then they got out of the carriage, and went inside. There they saw dogs, cats, rabbits, and all sorts of animals. Rosa was greatly delighted with a beautiful white rabbit with pink eyes.

After they had seen enough, they drove to the rectory, where the Haliburtons lived. After Rosa had said good-afternoon to her aunt, May and Clara took her to see the chickens and rabbits, the donkey, and all their other pets. Never had she spent such a delightful afternoon, and was very sorry when the tea bell rang, and they had to go in. But what a tea they had! Muffins, cakes, and preserves of all sorts, and such delicious fresh bread and butter, and new milk from her uncle's farm. At a quarter to nine the carriage came to take them home, and they had to say good-by.

Rosa was so tired that she fell asleep in her mamma's arms, and never woke till the next morning, when she found herself in her own little bed.

In Mrs. Mayfield's room some parcels are waiting, addressed to Miss R. Mayfield, one large, and the others small; and as it is Rosa's birthday, she is to open them herself. All the small ones are opened. In one she finds a gold brooch from her mamma; in another is a prayer-book from her father; in the others are presents from all her little friends. At last she unties the string and draws off the paper of the large parcel, and gives one scream of delight as she sees in a beautiful lined basket the little rabbit she saw at the cattle show. The lady to whom it belonged, being a friend of Mrs. Mayfield, had heard Rosa saying she would like to have it, and had sent it to her. Rosa ran off with her new pet to feed it, and after showing it to everybody she took it into the garden and put it into a cage close by her arbor, in a sunny corner, where she could always see it. She kept it carefully for three months; but on going to feed it one morning, with her hands full of lettuce leaves and clover, she found her pet was gone. A cruel cat had come every day and watched her feeding her rabbit, and at last, seeing her just pull the door to, and not lock it, had seized the opportunity, and had carried off her pet.

Poor little Rosa cried herself to sleep that night, and for many nights after, and never loved any of the pets her mamma gave her as she had loved her little white rabbit.

GUSSIE TOBIAS (aged 10 years), Liverpool, England.

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OKAHUMPKA, FLORIDA.

I am a little girl ten years old, and live away down in South Florida, where the sun is always bright and the trees always green. In our quiet little home there are only mamma, Addie, and I. Our dear father is dead. Sister Addie is six years old. We have no school, church, nor Sunday-school. Mamma gives us our lessons daily at home, and a kind English gentleman gives me music lessons. We do not know who sends us the YOUNG PEOPLE, but hope our kind unknown friend will see this letter, and learn how much we enjoy the gift and appreciate the kindness. I am suffering from sore eyes, and not allowed to read or write, so mamma is writing for me; but when I get well I will write myself, and tell about our pets and other things.

ROSA M. J.

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SCANDIA, KANSAS.

I have been taking your paper almost a year, and like it very much. It was papa's Christmas present to me, so I thought I would write you a letter. I have a pet hen. I call her Brownie. She is getting old now. She answers me in hen language when I take her up and talk to her. I have a canary-bird. I call him Dickey. He is just learning to sing.

LAURA H.

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HARLEM, NEW YORK.