Title: Treasury of American Indian Tales
Author: Theodore Whitson Ressler
Release date: August 5, 2020 [eBook #62855]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Stephen Hutcheson and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
BY THEODORE WHITSON RESSLER
BONANZA BOOKS · NEW YORK
517110660
Copyright © MCMLVII by National Board of Young Men’s Christian Association. Library of Congress Catalog Number: 57-5046. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Inquiries should be addressed to: BONANZA BOOKS, a division of Crown Publishers, Inc., 419 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10016.
This edition is published by BONANZA BOOKS,
a division of Crown Publishers, Inc.
by arrangement with The Association Press.
a b c d e f g h
Manufactured in the United States of America.
To William Frederick, My Son
I dedicate this book to you, my son. The ways of the Indian were good. Honesty and truth were sacred to them; courage, a part of their lives, as much as eating and sleeping. May this book prove to bring you many joyful hours of reading, for constantly were you with me during its writing, not only in person but in spirit.
This is a collection of American Indian tales for pre-teen boys and girls, a fact that does not obviate the possibility of their interest to parents and youth leaders, as well. All have been tested by the author-compiler with youngsters in many settings—in homes, in church, Scout and Y groups, by the campfire, in meeting rooms, and even in buses.
Those stories which the author has created are based upon Indian lore and customs. Many of the traditional stories were related to him by his Indian friends, descendants of the braves who first recounted them many generations ago. Both the original and the traditional tales are set down within the general context of Indian history, but without any pretense that the events actually took place.
Authenticity, however, in the life, customs, and moral standards of the Indians has been striven for in each story. Throughout, an attempt has been made to impart, without “preaching” at youngsters, three major ethical values common to all American Indians—courage, honesty in dealing with others, and truthfulness in speech.
The tales are of varying length, but all are short to conform with the interest span of average pre-teeners—and, hopefully, to leave them eager for the next story session.
It will be noted that both Indian boys and girls play leading roles. The author has found that the appeal of each story has been equal for both sexes irrespective of whether it has a young hero or heroine.
Parents and youth leaders will observe, too, that stress is placed in several stories upon the close father-son and mother-daughter relationship—completely true in Indian culture, and as much coveted in the formative pre-teen years of our own children today.
Whether read to children, or adapted and retold to them, or read by children themselves, it is hoped that these stories will be cherished as much by them as by the hundreds of boys and girls who helped, unwittingly, to select them for this book.
Theodore Whitson Ressler
Little Rabbit was a young Pueblo brave who lived a very happy and carefree life. There was nothing very special about Little Rabbit unless you were to say that his spirits were never dampened by a sad turn of events. When something went wrong and people were unhappy, Little Rabbit usually found his way to their side, and would offer words of encouragement.
The village in which Little Rabbit was born was like all the Pueblo adobe villages of centuries before him. Little Rabbit had to climb a ladder in order to enter his home, because all ground floor rooms had only a roof entrance. By pulling up the ladder at night, families made their homes hard to enter.
Little Rabbit had once watched several families make an adobe building, several levels high. The walls were made of a mixture of yellowish clay and sand, called adobe; the roofs were made of a heavy layer of the same adobe laid over a strong frame of log beams, crisscrossed with poles, willow branches, sticks, grass, and desert brush. The Spaniards had taught the Pueblos how to mold the adobe into bricks. Small holes were made for windows and doorways. Each family had one large room, and the ground floor room (without windows or a doorway) was used by all the families for storage, initiation of the boys into secret societies, and for religious ceremonies.
Because each floor was set back the depth of the room below, each level had a porch which was used by the Pueblo women for making corn bread, pottery, and baskets, and by the men to weave rugs and blankets. When religious ceremonies, dances, and games were taking place, these porches gave the whole family the best possible point from which to watch.
Such was the village in which Little Rabbit had grown to the age of twelve, a strong and tall young brave.
One day he had just finished playing some running games with his friends and was returning to his home when one of his friends called to him, “Come, Little Rabbit, we are going to walk the ledges.”
Now walking the ledges was a very difficult game and, most of the time, was forbidden by the parents. But occasionally some of the more daring young braves, willing to chance their necks, would organize a game of ledge walking. The idea was something like “Follow the Leader,” but far more dangerous. The boys would walk right on the edge of the roofs—along the first floor and, if successful and daring enough, along the second, and then along the third floor roof. As the boys went higher, fewer and fewer would take part; a fall from any one of the roofs would be bad, but a fall from the second or third could cause great injury or even death.
Now Little Rabbit was not a coward, but he hesitated to play the game because his father had told him that he was not to go without his father’s permission, and Little Rabbit knew that this was one game his father would not permit him to play. So with sadness in his heart he shouted back to the other boys that he had work to do, and continued on his way home.
Several days passed, and each day a few of the older boys would gather to walk ledges, and each day they would ask Little Rabbit to take part, and each day Little Rabbit would say no. Finally it got to be too much for even Little Rabbit. The next time he was asked he answered yes, and soon was playing the very dangerous game.
The boys had all completed the first ledge of the round floor and were starting for the second. Just as Little Rabbit reached the second ledge, a voice called out, “Little Rabbit, my son, what are you doing?”
The rest of the braves scattered, but the surprise at hearing his father’s angry voice near by frightened Little Rabbit for a moment, and he lost his balance. He tried to straighten up, but went tumbling down the side of the dwelling. He managed to break his fall by grasping at the ladder but was not able to hold on. When he landed, his leg was doubled under him and a sharp pain shot through his body, and then he fainted.
When Little Rabbit awoke, he found he was stretched on his own bed, and his father and mother were standing over him.
“I am sorry, my son,” his father said softly. “I did not mean to startle you so. But I was afraid for you, and the fear in my heart gave harshness and anger to my voice. If I had waited until you were safely over the edge and then called to you, this terrible thing might not have happened.”
“Do not blame yourself,” said Little Rabbit. “It is I who made the mistake. I disobeyed my father. I am truly sorry for that. If I had not been doing something wrong, I would not have been startled when you called. It was a foolish thing for me to do. I let the other boys tease me into playing. It would have been braver for me to tell them no. Truly I am ashamed, my father.”
“You must rest, my son. Your leg has been badly injured. When you have rested we shall talk of this.” With that, Little Rabbit’s father left the house to continue his work.
For many days Little Rabbit lay in pain from his hurt leg; but more than his leg, his heart and mind were hurt from the unhappiness he had brought to his father by disobeying. He tried to talk with his mother about how he felt but all his mother would say was, “Do not worry so, Little Rabbit. Your father has forgiven you.”
But this was not what concerned Little Rabbit. His father now had to carry on the work of farming the corn and brans and cotton all alone for the family. This made Little Rabbit feel very unhappy. He wanted to do his share of the work, and he liked to see crops grow.
His leg began to heal, and soon Little Rabbit was able to hobble around with the aid of a stout staff. He began to help around the house as much as he could. Before long, he was able to limp out to the garden after his father and work a little there, too.
Many moons passed and his leg healed and became strong. But it was twisted so that when Little Rabbit walked or ran he would limp rather badly. The other young braves felt sorry for Little Rabbit. Even though he could move about rather easily with his twisted leg, he really could not keep up with the other young braves in the many games they played. Soon he found that he was not being asked so often to play the really exciting games.
One day as Little Rabbit was seated in front of his home, his father was returning from the garden. As he came to where Little Rabbit was seated, he stopped and spoke gently.
“Why do you sit here so sad and forlorn, my son? Always you have been gay and happy, but lately you have become quiet and sad. Tell your father what it is that troubles you.”
And so Little Rabbit explained that because he could not keep up with them in the games of speed and skill, the other boys no longer invited him to play.
“My son, if you are going to sit here and let your life pass you by because your leg will not obey every command it is given, you will soon become very unhappy and bitter. You will be of no use to anyone, even yourself. You must turn your thoughts to other things. If you cannot run fast, you must practice. If you cannot jump, you must practice.”
“I have tried, my father, but it seems to do no good. My leg is strong, but the way it is twisted causes me to limp. If I try to run my leg bends under me. I have tried day after day but it is of no use.”
“You cannot sit here and think of the world as a sad, unhappy place. Such thoughts will make your leg feel even more twisted than it really is. You must be thankful for your opportunity to raise yourself to be more than just an ordinary Indian brave. You have a battle inside yourself now that calls for great courage and wisdom. How you will overcome it I do not know, but you must try, my son.”
That night Little Rabbit could not go to sleep because he was thinking about what his father had said. Maybe he had not been working hard enough to make his leg do what he commanded. Tomorrow he would try harder.
And so every day Little Rabbit practiced very hard. For many hours each week, he would exercise his leg. Finally one day he awoke feeling strong and fit. After breakfast he went forth from his home to find his friends for a game. When he located them, they were beginning a foot race which would take them around the village. Without waiting to be asked, Little Rabbit trotted into line just as the race started. The other boys were off to a big lead, but that didn’t worry Little Rabbit. He remembered what his father had said and, with each running step, he repeated the words, “I must try.”
The race was going strong. Soon, to his own surprise, Little Rabbit began to pass the other boys one after another. What he had lost in ability, he made up in stamina—the strength to go on and on. His many days of practice were now proving valuable. As the other boys began to tire and drop back, Little Rabbit passed the leading young brave. Then he began to widen the gap between himself and the next runner until nearly one hundred paces separated him from the second place runner when he crossed the finish line.
When all the runners had come panting to the finish line, they gathered around Little Rabbit, slapping his shoulders and congratulating him upon his victory. Finally, one of the young braves asked, “How did you manage to stay so fresh to the very end?”
“Well, you see,” said Little Rabbit quietly, “when I fell from the ledge that day and broke my leg, I was sure that I was being punished for disobeying my father’s wishes. After my leg healed and I began to play again, I found that I could not keep up with you in your games. Once again I thought that I was still being punished. But my father told me I must try harder. This brought me courage. Once again I began practicing every day to learn to run and jump even though my leg was twisted. I do not have the skill that I used to have, but I now have endurance which may stand me in very good stead later on as it has here today.”
Somewhere in the high ridges of the Great Smokies there was believed to be a lake called Atagahi, the Secret Lake. Few people had heard of it, and this is a story of a young Cherokee brave and his sister who enjoyed the secret of this beautiful lake nestled in the Great Smokies.
Utani placed his bright, shiny, new knife on the ground next to his new moccasins and admired the gleaming of the blade in the sun. He was a young Cherokee brave, rather tall for his age but very powerfully built and with sharp penetrating black eyes. He was too busy admiring the glint of the metal in the sun to notice the approach of Netani, his sister, until the shadow of her body crossed the knife blade and shut off the sun.
“Get out of the way of the sun,” cried Utani. “You are blocking the rays from shining on my knife.” Netani made no effort to move and so Utani repeated his request.
Netani could not understand Utani’s demand that she move, but he was her big brother and so she must obey. As she stepped aside she inquired of Utani why he watched so intently the blade of his knife in the sun.
Utani, of course, now being a man, did not want to give a childish answer such as, “I am watching the blade shine in the sun.” So he quickly gave another answer: “I am receiving a message from the sun.”
“What sort of message?” asked Netani.
“Oh, the sun is telling me where Atagahi is and maybe if I study the blade long enough the sun will tell me just where to find it.”
This, Utani thought, would satisfy his little sister. But her curiosity was too great, and she asked that Utani take her to the secret lake, Atagahi.
Now, Utani realized he had gone a little too far in his bragging; but being very stubborn, he refused to tell his sister that he really could not find the secret lake by looking at the knife blade in the sun. Utani made up his mind that he would have to find the secret lake, Atagahi. He rose and placed his knife carefully in his belt and, taking his sister’s hand, started toward the ridges of the Great Smokies. For two hours, Utani and Netani climbed higher and higher into the mountains; but as the day wore on, Utani began to feel a bit frightened, for they were a long way from home and had come upon nothing that looked like a lake. Finally Netani stopped a few feet behind Utani and called out.
“Let us rest here for a while, big brother. I am getting tired. Besides it is late and I am hungry. Let us go back to the village and look tomorrow.”
Of course, Utani secretly thought that was a wonderful idea, for he was tired and hungry too. He agreed to follow his little sister’s idea.
As he grasped his sister’s hand to start home, his foot kicked a small stone which rolled off the side of the trail and down a small embankment of earth and landed at the bottom with a splash. Utani and Netani looked at each other with great surprise and then carefully stepped to the edge of the path. Utani pushed aside the branches that grew along the side of the trail, and they both peered down into the waters of a beautiful blue green lake nestled among the trees and rocks that hid it from human eyes along the trail. They had found it! They had found Atagahi! It was fast growing dark, so the two children decided to return to their village and come back the following day to the secret lake. When they returned to their village the older braves wanted to know where they had been. Netani said, “We looked at Utani’s knife blade in the sun, and the sun told us where to find Atagahi.”
The older Cherokee braves all laughed and laughed very loudly. But Netani and Utani did not laugh, for they knew where Atagahi was and they could go there any time they pleased. They never told anyone their secret, but every once in a while if you looked very carefully up the trail into the mountains, you might see two Indian children kicking stones off the side of the trail.
“Quarter Moon! Where are you, Quarter Moon?”
Little Elk was shouting for his friend as he trotted through the quiet Iroquois village.
It was July, and many of the older braves had gone off to fish and hunt. There were few left in the village except the women, the old men, and the children. Little Elk was now twelve and he was feeling like a big warrior more and more each day.
Finally just as Little Elk was about to give up, he heard his friend answering him from behind his father’s wigwam. “Why do you call so loudly, Little Elk?”
“Because my mother said that I could go fishing this day and I would like you, my friend, to go with me. I have a great deal of good fishing equipment, and there is still one canoe left at the shore of the great lake. Can you come with me?”
Quarter Moon thought for a moment, especially of the work he was supposed to do that day. Finally he said, “Wait, I will go and ask my mother.”
With that he disappeared into the wigwam and in a moment was out again, smiling.
“My mother says that I may go, but that I must be back when the sun has climbed to the highest point in the sky. For any day now, my father is expected back and I have not completed the chores he gave me to do when he left.”
“Come then,” said Little Elk. “We must hurry.”
The two boys ran to the lake shore and, after placing their fishing equipment in the canoe, they stepped in and pushed away from the shore.
“We will paddle along the shore,” said Little Elk.
The Indians of the Northeast made fishing tackle from young basswood saplings and made their hooks from bone. With these they were able to catch the mighty muskellunge of the northern waters and supplemented their fresh meat diet with lake fish.
The boys paddled for quite some time before they dropped their lines into the water. They had picked a good spot because in a matter of minutes they had several fish in the floor of the canoe. Suddenly, Little Elk noticed that the canoe had been drifting and he spoke to his friend about it.
“We should start for home, Little Elk,” Quarter Moon said. “The sun is climbing high in the heavens. We have many fine fish, and our mothers will be proud.”
As they picked up their paddles once again, Little Elk looked around to make sure that they were headed in the right direction. They had been so busy with their fishing that they had drifted far from where they had started. Little Elk wasn’t quite sure which direction they should take to go homeward, for the two boys had never been off by themselves fishing and for a moment he was confused. Then, looking at the sun, he decided that they had turned completely around and would have to turn their canoe once again to be headed in the right direction. And after he told Quarter Moon, the two boys turned the canoe around and began to paddle in the direction they were sure was right.
They paddled past several islands and toward the main shore, when Quarter Moon cried out, “Little Elk, our canoe has sprung a leak.”
Little Elk looked down at his moccasins. The water was beginning to rise in the canoe. Then Little Elk knew why this old canoe had been left at the shore of the lake. The bottom was not considered safe. So the canoe had been left to be repaired and used later on.
“Quarter Moon, we are not too far from the shore. Paddle harder and we will be able to reach the shore before the canoe fills so full that we cannot move it.”
So the boys paddled with all their strength and soon felt the bow of the canoe scrape against the sandy bottom of the lake shore. Jumping out, the two boys pulled the leaking canoe ashore and up onto the brush. Looking around, the boys realized that they were in unfamiliar territory. Neither boy had ever been this far along the shore, but now, by looking out upon the lake, they guessed that they were some distance north of their village.
“Well,” said Little Elk, “at least we are not lost, for by following the shore south, we will come to our village. Come, Quarter Moon! We will put our fish upon some green sticks and take them with us.”
The boys took their knives and cut out two young branches from nearby trees; by running the branch through the gills of the fish and out through the mouth, they were able to carry them comfortably. The boys then started to follow the shore for home. By this time the sun was beginning to lower in the sky, and the boys knew that it was getting quite late. So they hurried along the shore carrying their prize catch of muskellunge.
When they had gone less than halfway to the village, Quarter Moon suddenly called out to his faster companion.
“Wait, Little Elk, do not run so fast. I cannot keep up with you. I must rest.”
The two boys seated themselves on the side of the lake to catch their breath. It was then that they suddenly heard a noise. Turning around, Little Elk saw several feathers through the trees. He was about to call out when a warrior came into his sight and he realized that these were not Iroquois, but a roving band of Abnakes. Quickly he threw himself to the ground and pushed Quarter Moon down beside him. Quarter Moon almost cried out because he was so startled, but Little Elk motioned him to be still. He pointed into the woods and Quarter Moon could see why Little Elk had motioned him to be quiet. Then Little Elk counted the Abnakes who were moving quietly along the trail in single file, headed in the direction of his village. There were fourteen of them, all tall, strong, young warriors, each carrying a stout bow and a quiver of arrows.
When the band had passed, Little Elk turned to Quarter Moon and whispered:
“We must hurry. They are headed in the direction of our village and with our warriors all gone, there are none but the old men, women, and children. We must warn the village.”
They jumped up and began to run as fast as they could along the shore toward their village, forgetting all about their fish and fishing gear, in their haste to get to their village and warn their people.
Soon they saw smoke from campfires only a few hundred paces ahead. Even though both boys felt as if their hearts would burst, they forced themselves to continue running until the wigwams of the village were in sight. The boys slowed to a trot, and entered the village all out of breath. They ran straight to the wigwam of Quarter Moon’s uncle and tried, between gasps for breath, to tell him what they had seen. Finally Quarter Moon’s uncle raised his hand. “Wait! Wait! My boy, get your breath and then tell me what has brought you to my wigwam breathing so heavily and looking like a frightened deer.”
The boys took several deep breaths and then Little Elk told his story to the old man.
“But we are not at war with the Abnakes and surely we have nothing they would want in our village. But if this is an attack, we must warn the others. Go through the village and tell all the others to gather at the medicine lodge. There are some of us left who can handle weapons. Rather than give our few supplies or our women to an attacking band of Abnakes, we will gather every able-bodied man and woman and fight if we have to.”
Word was sent out through the village, and soon everyone gathered at the medicine lodge. Quarter Moon was ready to repeat to all what he had told the old brave when Little Elk looked through the fringe in the trees and spotted some warriors approaching. He was about to shout a warning when he saw his father in the lead of the party. Little Elk ran to his father, shouting that the Abnakes were near by. And then he saw, standing next to his father, a very tall and handsome Abnake. For some reason, Little Elk felt that this was no ordinary warrior. Then his father spoke.
“Wait, Little Elk, my son. What is this you say about our village being invaded?”
Little Elk was embarrassed and looked down at the ground. “My father, when Quarter Moon and I were returning from our fishing trip, we saw some Abnakes through the trees. They carried many bows and quivers of arrows, and they were moving swiftly and quietly toward our village. Quarter Moon and I ran as fast as we could to warn the village.”
“You did well, my son. But come, I want you to welcome a friend of mine. This is Chief Big Running Fox of the Abnakes. With him are fourteen of his finest hunters. Our hunting party searched far and wide for game but with little success. After many days of searching, we were ready to start for home, sad and empty handed, when we were met by Chief Big Running Fox. After explaining to him our presence in Abnake lands, we were invited to their village, where we received food and shelter for the night. The next morning Chief Big Running Fox explained that the bad weather this past spring had driven the game north. The Abnakes had plenty, but knew that their neighbors to the south would not have much game. So Chief Big Running Fox let us hunt on the Abnake grounds to get plenty of meat for our tribe. In return we have invited them here for a feast to thank them for this great kindness.”
“I am sorry, great chief, that I thought you were going to attack our village,” said Little Elk, feeling very much ashamed.
Chief Big Running Fox placed his hands upon the boy’s shoulders. “Do not feel ashamed. It could have been an unfriendly visit and you were right to warn your people of strangers near your home. Your father can be proud to have you for a son, and we are glad to have you as a friend.”
The hunting party of Iroquois and Abnakes moved into the village side by side. That night, instead of war dances, there were happy dances celebrating their good hunting and finding a new friend. Right in the center of all the excitement sat Little Elk and Quarter Moon, the heroes of the day.
Between the swift running Snake River and the rumbling Grande Ronde in the beautiful Valley of Winding Waters, there lived a band of Indians called the Wallows, a branch of the Nez Percé tribe.
Little White Wolf was one of the young boys who was trying to earn his first feathers which would show that he had become a full-fledged brave. Often he would wander from the camp into the forests that covered the slopes of the valley. There he would try to think of things he could do to get his feather—an act of bravery or great hunting skill. Two summers had passed since he first tried to win his feather. His little friends, Swift Owl and Gray Frog, had earned their feathers and now strutted proudly through the village to call attention to their feathers. They both took special care to spend most of their time playing near Little White Wolf, no doubt to make him jealous of their awards.
One day, when Little White Wolf was watching his mother mold a small bowl from clay, he caught sight of his father, Big White Wolf, striding into the village with a large brown animal slung over his shoulders. Little White Wolf knew that his father had made a kill. The boy raced forward excitedly to greet his father. As his father came nearer, the boy saw the large claws of a mountain lion. He was thrilled and proud and asked impatiently for his father to tell him the story of the kill. But his father only shook his head and put his hand on Little White Wolf’s shoulder to quiet him.
“My son,” he told him, “you will have to wait until the big fire tonight when I tell the tale for all to hear.”
That night as the braves gathered around the evening fire, Little White Wolf settled as close as he could to the spot where his father would stand to tell his tale of adventure. After the other braves had told their stories, Little White Wolf’s father walked with long, firm steps to the center of the circle and began to speak. While Little White Wolf listened, he thought that his father looked unusually strong and tall.
Big White Wolf told how he had been tracking a deer in a small glen at the southern end of the valley when he heard a snarl. Turning quickly, he saw a large female puma poised to spring at him from a tree. Just as the cat leaped, Big White Wolf shot his arrow. The cat fell dead at his feet. He could not explain why the big cat had been roused unless he had been close to a lair of kittens which this mother cat had been guarding.
Little White Wolf leaned forward listening intently. Suddenly a thought flashed through his mind. He could not sleep soundly that night because he kept thinking of his secret plan. As dawn broke, Little White Wolf arose silently and gathered his bow and arrow and a small pouch of food. Then he started off for the southern end of the valley. He came soon to the place where his father had killed the big cat. The boy began to search every nook and cranny for the little kittens that must be here. He felt sure his father had been right in guessing why the cat had sprung at him.
Finally, after many hours of searching, Little White Wolf was about to give up when he heard a faint cry coming from his right. He moved behind a small tree and parted the branches to see what had made the sound. Just a few paces away in the hollow of a rock lay a small ball of brown fur. Now Little White Wolf must carry out his plan to bring the puma kitten back to camp alive. He moved slowly and quietly so that he would not frighten the kitten. The little puma was looking away from Little White Wolf.
When the boy was only two paces away, the kitten heard him. The animal jumped up quickly and started to run. But the Indian was too fast. He leaped and caught the kitten by the scruff of the neck. Then he lifted the little puma gently and began to scratch its head and pet it. In a few moments, the animal was curled up in Little White Wolf’s arms, leaning contentedly against the boy’s chest. The boy started back to camp with his prize.
No one had known why he had left or where he had gone, so Little White Wolf was greeted excitedly by the other boys as he marched into the camp. Even Swift Owl and Gray Frog praised him for having rescued the little puma and for having braved a possible attack from some grown puma.
That night Little White Wolf told his story. With great dignity, the Chief awarded the boy his feather. He was a very proud young brave. Now he could strut with Gray Frog and Swift Owl throughout the camp.
Little White Wolf never realized how thankful his father was that his son had returned safely. Big White Wolf knew that the father cat might have returned while the boy was taking the kitten. If that had happened, there might have been no feather award council fire that night.
Little Thunder was always the first one awake in his woodland Wyandot village, running about doing many chores before his parents were even awake. He would build up the breakfast fire and make sure there was enough wood to keep it going during the day. He would take the water bags to the cool spring and refill them with fresh water for that day and do many other little chores.
Finally when the rest of the village began to stir, Little Thunder would rush about gathering up his many small treasures and lay them all out in front of him on the ground to choose the ones he would carry with him that day. He had pieces of flint, a deer’s horn, colored stones from the brooks, birch bark on which he had burned pictures, and many other things important to an Indian boy. Then his mother would call him in to eat. When breakfast was over, his father and mother would explain the family’s plans for the day. Then each would set about doing his share of the work.
One morning just before Little Thunder’s father was to go off on a hunt with the other warriors of the village, he called Little Thunder to him.