aythings made of carved wood and bone. The bright toys jingle and rattle, and the baby laughs.
To-day the little arms and hands are firmly laced inside the beaded bag. So the child can not reach out and play with the noisy images as she loves to do.
Laced, bound, and protected, the baby is safe even when her mother pushes through the thickest forest.
The boys, who run everywhere, have brought good news to the camp. "The June berries are ripe in the forest," they say. So the mothers are starting with children and bags for the berry picking.
It is not yet sunrise; but it is the custom of the Indians to rise early. The men, with bows and arrows, knives and spears, have already gone away to their daily business--the hunt.
The older lads are with their fathers, and the little boys have begun a long summer's day of shouting, swimming, mud throwing, and mischief. Among them is White Cloud's brother, a sturdy boy of four years.
Here and there are old men
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