ld far and wide,
for at the next great "potlatch" (feast) given by the Lillooets, the
entire tribe conferred the great honor of a new name upon Leloo, the
name he had won for himself--"Wolf-Brother."

We-hro's Sacrifice

A Story of a Boy and a Dog

We-hro was a small Onondaga Indian boy, a good-looking, black-eyed
little chap with as pagan a heart as ever beat under a copper-colored
skin. His father and grandfathers were pagans. His ancestors for a
thousand years back, and yet a thousand years back of that, had been
pagans, and We-hro, with the pride of his religion and his race, would
not have turned from the faith of his fathers for all the world. But the
world, as he knew it, consisted entirely of the Great Indian Reserve,
that lay on the banks of the beautiful Grand River, sixty miles west of
he great Canadian city of Toronto.

Now, the boys that read this tale must not confuse a pagan with a
heathen. The heathen nations that worship idols are terribly pitied
and despised by the pagan Indians, who are worshippers of "The Great
Spirit," a kind and loving God, who, they say, will reward them by
giving them happy hunting grounds to live in after they die; that is,
if they live good, honest, upright lives in this world.

We-hro would have scowled blackly if anyone had dared to name him a
heathen. He thoroughly ignored the little Delaware boys, whose fathers
worshipped idols fifty years ago, and on all the feast days and dance
days he would accompany his parents to the "Longhouse" (which was their
church), and take his little part in the religious festivities. He could
remember well as a tiny child being carried in his mother's blanket
"pick-a-back," while she dropped into the soft swinging movement of
the dance, for We-hro's people did not worship their "Great Spirit"
with hymns of praise and lowly prayers, the way the Christian Indians
did. We-hro's people worshipped their God by dancing beautiful, soft,
dignified steps, with no noisy clicking heels to annoy one, but only the
velvety shuffle of the moccasined feet, the weird beat of the Indian
drums, the mournful chanting of the old chiefs, keeping time with the
throb of their devoted hearts.

Then, when he grew too big to be carried, he was allowed to clasp his
mother's hand, and himself learn the pretty steps, following his father,
who danced ahead, dressed in full costume of scarlet cloth and buckskin,
with gay beads and bear claws about his neck, and w