one chose his
opponent. The rule was that if a boy sat down, he was let alone, but as
long as he remained standing within the field, he was open to an
attack. No one struck with the hand, but all manner of tripping with
legs and feet and butting with the knees was allowed. Altogether it was
an exhausting pastime--fully equal to the American game of football,
and only the young athlete could really enjoy it.

One of our most curious sports was a war upon the nests of wild bees.
We imagined ourselves about to make an attack upon the Ojibways or some
tribal foe. We all painted and stole cautiously upon the nest; then,
with a rush and war-whoop, sprang upon the object of our attack and
endeavored to destroy it. But it seemed that the bees were always on
the alert and never entirely surprised, for they always raised quite as
many scalps as did their bold assailants! After the onslaught upon the
nest was ended, we usually followed it by a pretended scalp dance.

On the occasion of my first experience in this mode of warfare, there
were two other little boys who were also novices. One of them
particularly was really too young to indulge in an exploit of that
kind. As it was the custom of our people, when they killed or wounded
an enemy on the battle-field, to announce the act in a loud voice, we
did the same. My friend, Little Wound (as I will call him, for I do not
remember his name), being quite small, was unable to reach the nest
until it had been well trampled upon and broken and the insects had
made a counter charge with such vigor as to repulse and scatter our
numbers in every direction. However, he evidently did not want to
retreat without any honors; so he bravely jumped upon the nest and
yelled:

"I, the brave Little Wound, to-day kill the only fierce enemy!"

[Illustration: So he bravely jumped upon the nest. _Page 32._]

Scarcely were the last words uttered when he screamed as if stabbed to
the heart. One of his older companions shouted:

"Dive into the water! Run! Dive into the water!" for there was a lake
near by. This advice he obeyed.

When we had reassembled and were indulging in our mimic dance, Little
Wound was not allowed to dance. He was considered not to be in
existence--he had been killed by our enemies, the Bee tribe. Poor
little fellow! His swollen face was sad and ashamed as he sat on a
fallen log and watched the dance. Although he might well have styled
himself one of the noble dead who had d