reservation.

"Little Angus," it ran, "sends what is over to sell for him. Sarah
sends the hearts. As soon as you can, will you try and sell some
hearts?" Then there was "love to mother," and lastly an account of
what the mason had said about the chimney of the cabin. They had sent
for him to fix it. It was very dangerous the way it was, ran the
message, and if mother would get the bricks, he would fix it right
away.

The old squaw looked on with an anxious expression while the note was
being read, as if she expected some sense to come out of it that would
find her folks; but none of that kind could be made out of it, so they
sat and waited until General Parker should come in.

General Ely S. Parker was the "big Indian" of Mulberry Street in a
very real sense. Though he was a clerk in the Police Department and
never went on the war-path any more, he was the head of the ancient
Indian Confederacy, chief of the Six Nations, once so powerful for
mischief, and now a mere name that frightens no one. Donegahawa--one
cannot help wishing that the picturesque old chief had kept his name
of the council lodge--was not born to sit writing at an office desk.
In youth he tracked the bear and the panther in the Northern woods.
The scattered remnants of the tribes East and West owned his rightful
authority as chief. The Canaghwagas were one of these. So these lost
ones had come straight to the official and actual head of their people
when they were stranded in the great city. They knew it when they
heard the magic name of Donegahawa, and sat silently waiting and
wondering till he should come. The child looked up admiringly at the
gold-laced cap of Inspector Williams, when he took her on his knee,
and the stern face of the big policeman relaxed and grew tender as a
woman's as he took her face between his hands and kissed it.

When the general came in he spoke to them at once in their own tongue,
and very sweet and musical it was. Then their troubles were soon over.
The sachem, when he had heard their woes, said two words between puffs
of his pipe that cleared all the shadows away. They sounded to the
paleface ear like "Huh Hoo--ochsjawai," or something equally
barbarous, but they meant that there were not so many Indians in town
but that theirs could be found, and in that the sachem was right. The
number of redskins in Thompson Street--they all live over there--is
about seven.

The old squaw, when she was told that her friend woul