became a common food among his tribe."

MOVING THE DOLLS' CAMP

White Cloud ran out of her wigwam home. Her work was done, and a happy
time of play was before her.

She hurried through the tall grass toward a near-by lodge, calling:
"Flying Squirrel, come and play with me."

The skin curtain hanging over the lodge door was raised and a little
head appeared. But there was no squirrel to be seen, only an Indian
girl with the blackest of hair and eyes.

Her playmates had given her the name of Flying Squirrel because she
was always climbing trees and jumping from one branch to another.

"Bring your dolls," said White Cloud. "We'll build lodges for them.
Come as soon as you can, for my baby is trying to get away."

"Your baby! What do you mean? Where did you find a baby?"

White Cloud was rejoicing in a family of young puppies--new playthings
for her. She had bound one of them to a board, and had tied the board
cradle to her back, as a squaw carries a papoose.

"Be still! Be still, bad baby!" she cried to her squirming pet. But
the little dog would not be still. He howled louder and louder, and
struggled so hard that he broke away from his cords and bands.

"Bad baby! Bad baby!" said White Cloud. "Next time I'll tie you
tighter!"

Flying Squirrel brought out an armful of dolls, and the children went
to the bushes to cut long straight sticks. They soon found enough
poles for their dolls' wigwams. Each child set up her sticks in a
circle, bringing them together at the top.

"Now we'll hunt birch bark," said Flying Squirrel. "My father has made
me a new knife."

Soon the small lodges were covered with long strips of bark and the
floors sprinkled with cedar twigs.

"I wish we had skin covers for our dolls' wigwams," said White Cloud.

Flying Squirrel looked at the even strips of bark that were well
placed around her frame of slender poles. "Lots of people have bark
covers," she replied. "My father has seen whole villages of
bark-covered lodges."

"When the peace pipe was smoked over west, my father was there," said
White Cloud. "Now we can get big skins in trade, and sometime we'll
have ponies. Have you ever seen a pony, Flying Squirrel?"

"No; but my father saw white men when he went north in the moon of
snow to trade furs. He says the tribes west will come and fight us
again for our rice beds. Let's play a war is coming and move our camp.
Where are your dolls, White Cloud?"

"I couldn't bring th