rk and he was afraid. He urged him to go, saying that his mother,
as well as himself, was tired, and the distance to the water was very
short. But no persuasion was of any avail. He refused to go. "Ah, my
son," said the father, at last, "if you are afraid to go to the river,
you will never kill the Red Head."

The boy was deeply mortified by this observation. It seemed to call up
all his latent energies. He mused in silence. He refused to eat, and
made no reply when spoken to.

The next day he asked his mother to dress the skin of the deer, and make
it into moccasins for him, while he busied himself in preparing a bow
and arrows. As soon as these things were done, he left the lodge one
morning at sunrise, without saying a word to his father or mother. He
fired one of his arrows into the air, which fell westward. He took that
course, and at night coming to the spot where the arrow had fallen, was
rejoiced to find it piercing the heart of a deer. He refreshed himself
with a meal of the venison, and the next morning fired another arrow.
After travelling all day, he found it also in another deer. In this
manner he fired four arrows, and every evening found that he had killed
a deer. What was very singular, however, was, that he left the arrows
sticking in the carcasses, and passed on without withdrawing them. In
consequence of this, he had no arrow for the fifth day, and was in great
distress at night for the want of food. At last he threw himself upon
the ground in despair, concluding that he might as well perish there as
go further. But he had not lain long before he heard a hollow, rumbling
noise, in the ground beneath him. He sprang up, and discovered at a
distance the figure of a human being, walking with a stick. He looked
attentively and saw that the figure was walking in a wide beaten path,
in a prairie, leading from a lodge to a lake. To his surprise, this
lodge was at no great distance. He approached a little nearer and
concealed himself. He soon discovered that the figure was no other than
that of the terrible witch, Wok-on-kahtohn-zooeyah-pee-kah-haitchee, or
the little old woman who makes war. Her path to the lake was perfectly
smooth and solid, and the noise our adventurer had heard, was caused by
the striking of her walking staff upon the ground. The top of this staff
was decorated with a string of the toes and bills of birds of every
kind, who at every stroke of the stick, fluttered and sung their various
n