Prudy came into the house one day in a great fright, and said they’d “better hide the baby, for there was a very wicked woman round.”

“Her hair looks like a horse’s tail,” said she, “and she’s got a black man’s hat on her head, and a table-cloth over her.”

Aunt Madge took Prudy in her lap, and told her it was only an Indian woman, who had no idea of harming any one.

“What are Nindians?” asked the child.

Her aunt said they were sometimes called “red men.”  The country had once been filled by them:  but the English came, a great many years ago, and shook off the red men just as a high wind shakes the red leaves off a tree; and they were scattered about, and only a few were left alive.  Sometimes the Oldtown Indians came round making baskets; but they were quiet and peaceable people.

Horace and his friend “Grasshopper,” as they were strolling up the river, came upon a tent made of canvas, and at the door of the tent sat a little boy about their own age, with a bow and arrow in his hand, in the act of firing.

Grasshopper, who was always a coward, ran with all his might; but as Horace happened to notice that the arrow was pointed at something across the river, he was not alarmed, but stopped to look at the odd little stranger, who turned partly round and returned his gaze.  His eyes were keen and black, with a good-natured expression, something like the eyes of an intelligent dog.

“What’s your name, boy?” said Horace.

“Me no understand.”

“I asked what your name is,” continued Horace, who was sure the boy understood, in spite of his blank looks.

“Me no hurt white folks; me bunkum Indian.”

“Well, what’s your name, then?  What do they call you?”

No answer, but a shake of the head.

“I reckon they call you John, don’t they?”

Here the boy’s mother appeared at the door.

“His name no John!  Eshy-ishy-oshy-neeshy-George-Wampum-Shoony-Katoo; short name, speak um quick! ­Jaw-awn!  Great long name!” drawled she, stretching it out as if it were made of India rubber, and scowling with an air of disgust.

“What does she mean by calling ‘John’ long?” thought Horace.

The woman wore a calico dress, short enough to reveal her brown, stockingless feet and gay moccasons.

Her hair was crow-black, and strayed over her shoulders and into her eyes.  Horace concluded she must have lost her back-comb.

While he was looking at her with curious eyes, her daughter came to the door, feeling a little cross at the stranger, whoever it might be; but when she saw only an innocent little boy, she smiled pleasantly, showing a row of white teeth.  Horace thought her rather handsome, for she was very straight and slender, and her eyes shone like glass beads.  Her hair he considered a great deal blacker than black, and it was braided and tied with gay red ribbons.  She was dressed in a bright, large-figured calico, and from her ears were suspended the longest, yellowest, queerest, ear-rings.  Horace thought they were shaped like boat-paddles, and would be pretty for Prudy to use when she rowed her little red boat in the bathing-tub.  If they only “scooped” a little more they would answer for tea-spoons.  “Plenty big as I should want for tea-spoons,” he decided, after another gaze at them.

The young girl was used to being admired by her own people, and was not at all displeased with Horace for staring at her.

“Me think you nice white child,” said she:  “you get me sticks, me make you basket, pretty basket for put apples in.”

“What kind of sticks do you mean?” said Horace, forgetting that they pretended not to understand English.  But it appeared that they knew very well what he meant this time, and the Indian boy offered to go with him to point out the place where the wood was to be found.  Grasshopper, who had only hidden behind the trees, now came out and joined the boys.

“Wampum,” as he chose to be called, led them back to Mr. Parlin’s grounds, to the lower end of the garden, where stood some tall silver poplars, on which the Indians had looked with longing eyes.

“Me shin them trees,” said Wampum; “me make you basket.”

“Would you let him, Grasshopper?”

“Yes, indeed; your grandfather won’t care.”

“Perhaps he might; you don’t know,” said Horace, who, after he had asked advice, was far from feeling obliged to take it.  He ran in great haste to the field where his grandfather was hoeing potatoes, thinking, “If I ask, then I shan’t get marked in the blue book anyhow.”

In this case Horace acted very properly.  He had no right to cut the trees, or allow any one else to cut them, without leave.  To his great delight, his grandfather said he did not care if they clipped off a few branches where they would not show much.

When Horace got back and reported the words of his grandfather, Wampum did not even smile, but shot a glance at him as keen as an arrow.

“Me no hurt trees,” said he, gravely; and he did not:  he only cut off a few limbs from each one, leaving the trees as handsome as ever.

“Bully for you!” cried Horace, forgetting the blue book.

“He’s as spry as a squirrel,” said Grasshopper, in admiration; “how many boughs has he got?  One, two, three.”

“Me say ’em quickest,” cried little Wampum.  “Een, teen, teddery, peddery, bimp, satter, latter, doe, dommy, dick.”

“That’s ten,” put in Horace, who was keeping ’count.

“Een-dick,” continued the little Indian, “teen-dick, teddery-dick, peddery-dick, bumpin, een-bumpin, teen-bumpin, teddery-bumpin, peddery-bumpin, jiggets.”

“Hollo!” cried Grasshopper; “that’s twenty; jiggets is twenty;” and he rolled over on the ground, laughing as if he had made a great discovery.

Little by little they made Wampum tell how he lived at home, what sort of boys he played with, and what they had to eat.  The young Indian assured them that at Oldtown “he lived in a house good as white folks; he ate moose-meat, ate sheep-meat, ate cow-meat.”

“Cook out doors, I s’pose,” said Grasshopper.

Wampum looked very severe.  “When me lives in wigwam, me has fires in wigwam:  when me lives in tent, me puts fires on grass; ­keep off them things,” he added, pointing at a mosquito in the air; “keep smoke out tent,” pointing upward to show the motion of the smoke.

Horace felt so much pleased with his new companion, that he resolved to treat him to a watermelon.  So, without saying a word to the boys, he ran into the house to ask his grandmother.

“What! a whole watermelon, Horace?”

“Yes, grandma, we three; me, and Grasshopper, and Wampum.”

Mrs. Parlin could not help smiling to see how suddenly Horace had adopted a new friend.

“You may have a melon, but I think your mother would not like to have you play much with a strange boy.”

“He’s going to make me a splendid basket; and besides, aren’t Indians and negroes as good as white folks?  ’Specially tame Indians,” said Horace, not very respectfully, as he ran back, shoe-knife in hand, to cut the watermelon.

This was the beginning of a hasty friendship between himself and Wampum.  For a few days there was nothing so charming to Horace as the wild life of this Indian family.  He was made welcome at their tent, and often went in to see them make baskets.

“I trust you,” said Mrs. Clifford; “you will not deceive me, Horace.  If you ever find that little Wampum says bad words, tells falsehoods, or steals, I shall not be willing for you to play with him.  You are very young, and might be greatly injured by a bad playmate.”

The tent was rude enough.  In one corner were skins laid one over another:  these were the beds which were spread out at night for the family.  Instead of closets and presses, all the wearing apparel was hung on a long rope, which was stretched from stake to stake, in various directions, like a clothes-line.

It was curious to watch the brown fingers moving so easily over the white strips, out of which they wove baskets.  It was such pretty work! it brought so much money.  Horace thought it was just the business for him, and Wampum promised to teach him.  In return for this favor, Horace was to instruct the little Indian in spelling.

For one or two evenings he appointed meetings in the summer-house, and really went without his own slice of cake, that he might give it to poor Wampum, after a lesson in “baker.”

He received the basket in due time, a beautiful one ­red, white, and blue.  Just as he was carrying it home on his arm, he met Billy Green, the hostler, who stopped him, and asked if he remembered going into “the Pines” one day with Peter Grant?  Horace had no reason to forget it, surely.

“Seems to me you ran away with my horse-basket,” said Billy; “but I never knew till yesterday what had ’come of it.”

“There, now,” replied Horace, quite crestfallen; “Peter Grant took that!  I forgot all about it.”

What should be done?  It would never do to ask his mother for the money, since, as he believed, she had none to spare.  Billy was fond of joking with little boys.

“Look here, my fine fellow,” said he, “give us that painted concern you’ve got on your arm, and we’ll call it square.”

“No, no, Billy,” cried Horace, drawing away; “this is a present, and I couldn’t.  But I’m learning to weave baskets, and I’ll make you one ­see if I don’t!”

Billy laughed, and went away whistling.  He had no idea that Horace would ever think of the matter again; but in truth the first article the boy tried to make was a horse-basket.

“Me tell you somethin,” said little Wampum, next morning, as he and Horace were crossing the field together.  “Very much me want um, ­um, ­um,” ­putting his fingers up to his mouth in a manner which signified that he meant something to eat.

“Don’t understand,” said Horace:  “say it in English.”

“Very much me want um,” continued Wampum, in a beseeching tone.  “No tell what you call um.  E’enamost water, no quite water; e’enamost punkin, no quite punkin.”

“Poh! you mean watermelon,” laughed Horace:  “should think you’d remember that as easy as pumpkin.”

“Very much me want um,” repeated Wampum, delighted at being understood; “me like um.”

“Well,” replied Horace, “they aren’t mine.”

“O, yes.  Ugh! you’ve got ’em.  Melon-water good!  Me have melon-waters, me give you moc-suns.”

“I’ll ask my grandpa, Wampum.”

Hereupon the crafty little Indian shook his head.

“You ask olé man, me no give you moc-suns!  Me no want een ­me want bimp ­bumpin ­jiggets.”

Horace’s stout little heart wavered for a moment.  He fancied moccasins very much.  In his mind’s eye he saw a pair shining with all the colors of the rainbow, and as Wampum had said of the melons, “very much he wanted them.”  How handsome they’d be with his Zouave suit!

But the wavering did not last long.  He remembered the blue book which his mother was to see next week; for then the month would be out.

“It wouldn’t be a ‘D.,’” thought he, “for nobody told me not to give the watermelons.”

“No,” said Conscience; “’twould be a black S.; that stands for stealing!  What, a boy with a dead father, a dead soldier-father, steal!  A boy called Horace Clifford!  The boy whose father had said, ‘Remember God sees all you do!’”

“Wampum,” said Horace, firmly, “you just stop that kind of talk!  Moccasins are right pretty; but I wouldn’t steal, no, not if you gave me a bushel of ’em.”

After this, Horace was disgusted with his little friend, not remembering that there are a great many excuses to be made for a half-civilized child.  They had a serious quarrel, and Wampum’s temper proved to be very bad.  If the little savage had not struck him, I hope Horace would have dropped his society all the same; because, after Wampum proved to be a thief, it would have been sheer disobedience on Horace’s part to play with him any longer.

Of course the plan of basket-making was given up; but our little Horace did one thing which was noble in a boy of his age:  perhaps he remembered what his father had said long ago in regard to the injured watch; but, at any rate, he went to Billy Green of his own accord, and offered him the beautiful present which he had received from the Indians.

“It’s not a horse-basket, Billy:  I didn’t get to make one,” stammered he, in a choked voice; “but you said you’d call it square.”

“Whew!” cried Billy, very much astonished:  “now look here, bub; that’s a little too bad!  The old thing you lugged off was about worn out, anyhow.  Don’t want any of your fancy baskets:  so just carry it back, my fine little shaver.”

To say that Horace was very happy, would not half express the delight he felt as he ran home with the beautiful basket on his arm, his “ownest own,” beyond the right of dispute.

The Indians disappeared quite suddenly; and perhaps it was nothing surprising that, the very next morning after they left, grandpa Parlin should find his beautiful melon-patch stripped nearly bare, with nothing left on the vines but a few miserable green little melons.