more, and evidently the animals now knew where they were, for they kept this path. After some time a light burst on our sight, hidden previously by trees or rocks.

"Thank fortune people do sit up in Arcady. That is certainly Judge Thornton's cottage. It won't be long now before we are at home." Dorothy "Where are we now Tom?"

"Why, dear, don't you know your own home?"

It was past midnight, but old Jason, the cook, was still up. The other members of the household had concluded that we had stopped somewhere for the night, and had all gone to bed. Jason held his sides with laughter when he saw

us.

"Lawd a massy, whar yuh bin? What yuh bin doin'?" And we were sights. People in stories can always come out of the worst ordeals, look

ing interesting and beautiful, or at least picturesque; but it didn't happen so to us. One by one the household assembled convulsed with merriment at the freaks. But we were beyond caring for anything. Our pretty sunbonnets of the morning, our jaunty waists and skirts, and our fine boots! Tom could have posed for an Indian chief; his trousers were in fringes half way to his knees, for he had pulled them out of his boots to keep the rain from filling them. But I am not going to tell you what we did look like.

Half an hour later we were sitting around a roaring fire in dressing gowns and slippers, with a hot supper in progress, and Marble Mountain was a memory.

"It's nice to be wild once in a while, but you want a home to come to afterwards for hospitable treatment; for mountains do not use one as gently as truth," observed Tom.

BY

W

AZHINGER Saba was a

great Medicine Man. An old Indian whose original being has not been blasted by the doubt of the white man, will tell you that he was a seer of strange things big in meaning; a dreamer of dreams that glared with the light of dawns and days, sundowns and stars, speaking with the ambiguous tongue of mystery! To his credulous subjects, Wazinga Saba was a bronze Colossus, stretching a hard metallic hand across his little world, and the little world groaned or laughed according to the will of the manymooded master; for such have been the people since the creation, and such have been the masters.

In the fall of the year 1812 the entire Omaha tribe, returning from a buffalo hunt on the plains which now constitute Western Nebraska, built its winter village at. a distance of about 200 miles from Ne Shuga, the Great River.

The hunting had been poor, and the tribe, though originally intending to winter among the protecting bluffs of the great stream, where firewood was plentiful, discontinued its march in order to conserve its strength. Who toils must eat inuch; therefore the tribe ceased toiling that the small stock of meat might endure the winter.

The Omahas built comfortable mud lodges along the banks of a creek, which would at once afford them water and a limited supply of

wood from the scattered plum thickets.

The fall days passed and the Northwest breathed with snowy breath upon the hills, and the tribe was locked in the desolate little valley as by a hand of ice. Confinement to the lodges and insufficiency of food brought sickness. Many a strong brave became less than the shadow of a squaw. Many a squaw tottered and fell beneath her load, and became weaker than the child at her back.

It was one of the numerous humble tragedies that history does not

see.

But daily about the windswept village went a youth who entered the lodges where the groans of suffering were loudest. There was a strange light in his eye, and he who from the bed of sickness saw the light trusted in the youth and muttered to his kinsmen: "Did you not see the light in the eye of this youth? Wakunda smiles upon him his power is great!"

This the people did not guess. The light was the glare of the life that was being consumed within him, blown upon by the strong breath of the winter and the hunger. For wherever the youth went he brought not only the mysterious drinks brewed from herbs, but he brought morsels of meat which he himself should have eaten.

And it happened that some of the stricken died and the greater part lived. Then a small noise of

voices with a big meaning spread throughout the village. A buzz of wonder, which was full of the doings of the youth, whom the people learned to call Wazadi (Healer.)

In all races have appeared these sacrificing men of genius. Some have been Christs in their small way; some have remained unappreciated martyrs. All have contributed to the upbuilding of belief in the supernatural. These are the incarnations of Pity, grotesque in a world of cruelty and suffering. Many have missed immortality but by the length of Pilate's judgment.

The noise of wondering voices spread and swelled into a cry that beat into the lodge of the stern and selfish chief, Wazhinga Saba. And as he heard, the little warmth that hid in his heart died and the coldness came; for jealousy is the northwest wind of the soul.

Many days he sat alone in his lodge, speaking only with the jealousy of his heart. He said to himself: "Am I not the greatest of all medicine men? Shall a youth walk between Wazhinga Saba and the belief of his people?"

Then the coldness of his heart answered things that would have been terrible upon a tongue. the Chief listened.

And

So it happened one evening that a runner came to the lodge of the youth called Wazadi, summoning him to go to the big chief's lodge. Wazadi followed the runner to the big lodge.

He pushed aside the buffalo hide that hung across the door and entered. The chief, dressed in his most elaborate garments, profusely decorated with wolfs' teeth and hawks' beaks, sat alone by his fire. As the youth entered, the chief arose and stood in the glare of the flames that gave an additional attraction to his regal figure. For a moment Wazadi stood awed into immobility at the sight, nor moved until Wazhinga Saba smiled. a pleasant smile. The smile had its

meaning. The Chief had wished to dazzle the youth, and it was accomplished.

Wazhinga Saba motioned the youth to sit upon the opposite side of the fire. After a prolonged silence, during which each regarded the other through the haze of flamelit smoke, the Chief said:

"The great heart of Wazhinga Saba is glad of the good words that have been spoken among the lodges. Does not the Chief love his people? The little words of a chief are big. Wazhinga Saba wishes to do great honor to Wazadi." At the name, the speaker paused and smiled again. "This place is not good," he continued; "there is an evil spirit in this place. There is much sickness and groaning and dying. It must not be. Does not the Great Chief love his people? We will take the sunrise trail; we will leave the groaning and the sickness behind us. We will go to the banks of the great smoky water. It is a good place; there are good spirits there."

The Chief paused and looked into the flames, thinking deeply. "I have a deed for a strong and brave man. A good trail must be found that the tribe may not go astray. Is Wazadi strong? Is he brave? Then let him seek a good trail to the great smoky water. Let him go alone, that the honor may not be divided like a big bison by many that are hungry!"

As Wazhinga Saba ceased speaking, a great joy born of vanity blazed in the blood of the youth, and he answered the question in the chief's eyes with a glad voice.

"I am strong and brave! I will seek the trail!"

that his vain heart sang, the future had been as the horizon of the morning when a black cloud blinds the eyes of the climbing sun. But now the cloud had become but a thin, translucent vapor, promising to vanish in the glare of day.

As he gazed into the fire he was thinking of the long and cruel trail which his rival would follow; of the keen and merciless storm winds, mad with the zigzag flight of snow! His reverie grew deeper. In his mind he followed the youth down the sunrise trail. He saw him wallowing through drifts, tumbling into hidden ravines; stumbling on through the blinding, hissing snow that obliterated all landmarks! He saw the white ghost of a man thrown down with hunger and the cold, to be the senseless impediment upon which the snow caught and drifted.

The last thought came like the first far cry of an approaching triumph. The Chief leaped to his feet with a loud burst of laughter. "Wazadi will not come back!" he muttered slowly as though to taste the sweetness of the words: "Wazadi will not come back! Wazadi!"

At the last word he chuckled with derision, and then lay down beside his fire. But he did not sleep. Defeat can sleep, because there is an element of death in it. Triumph is wakeful, because it is life new-born.

Before the sunrise of the next day Wazadi had disappeared among the frozen hills to the eastward. Upon the lips of Wazhinga Saba sat a smile beside a sneer.. He had vanquished his budding rival and his heart held high festival.

For many days he feasted the other chiefs of the tribe, who had become puppets in his hands. Haunches of the best bison meat were wasted, until starvation stood between the tribe and the spring. And the people looked with wistful eyes upon the doings of their chief and muttered syllables of discon

tent like the sound of underground waters, for they dared not speak aloud.

But one evening, after many days. of storm had swept across the sky, the figure of a man, frost-whitened, weakened, and blinded with the snow, stumbled into the village.

"Wazadi has come back! Wazadi has come back!"

The shout passed contagiously from lip to lip, and grew into a clamor that found its way through the door of the lodge of Wazhinga Saba. The cry wrought a terrible anger in his heart.

What! Was this the way the great Wazhinga Saba took revenge? No! He would see the blood of this audacious Wazadi! Yet it could not be done with violence, for did not the people love the youth? An oppressed people is like a pack of wolves. Both flee until the trail ends, then they turn and their bites are terrible! Would not the violent death of Wazadi end the trail?

At this thought the revenge of Wazhinga Saba became indefinite; yet some time it would be. He would wait.

These turbulent thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of the youth himself. He stood at the door of the lodge, the white ghost of a man. His eyes were sunken

and bleared. The skin was drawn across his cheek bones. He tottered. His voice was the ghost of a strong voice:

"I have found the trail; the tribe will not go astray. The trail is long and there is death upon it. The winds strike like the forefeet of a bear and bite like the teeth of a wolf. I was strong and I am here. It is a bad thing for the people to take the trail!"

Wazhinga Saba smiled and answered: "Does the strong man make his toil worthless with his groaning? Wazhinga Saba speaks with the spirits. Wakunda (God) will put his hand upon the winds and