things belonging to the dead chief whom Annawon had loved so dearly.

The war was over and there was peace in the country.

The white people felt that the Indians must be made to remember what had happened. They cut off the head of King Philip and fastened it on a gate-post at Plymouth. This would say to every red man who passed by, "Have a care! Look at that and take warning!

What shame and sorrow it must have brought to the few faithful followers of the great Indian chief, King Philip.

PONTIAC,

War Chief of the Ottawas

HAT a great brave my father is!" thought

WHAT

the little Pontiac when he looked at the stern face of the warrior. "I will copy him in every way I can and when I grow up I, too, will be a chief among my people."

At first he was very much like other small boys of his race. On wet days he hung inside of his pretty baby-frame from the roof of the birch wigwam. As he swung there, his bright black eyes watched his mother at her work. Perhaps she was roasting a piece of deer meat for his father's dinner. Or, it may be, she was baking corn cakes which would make a delicious meal when eaten with syrup from the maple

trees.

At other times her fingers were busy embroidering moccasins, or weaving baskets which she bound together with the sweet-grass she loved so dearly.

When the sun drove the clouds away and the rain or snow stopped falling, there was plenty of other

work for the baby's mother. In winter, she must gather wood to keep the bright fire burning in the middle of her lodge. In the early springtime, she would prepare the field for corn-planting. Later on, during the long days of summer, there were berries to pick, roots to dig, and rushes to gather for the making of mats to cover the lodge floor.

So there were many things to keep her busy, even though she was the wife of a war chief.

As for the little Pontiac, we may be sure of one thing,-wherever his mother went, there also traveled her darling son, fastened to her back in the babyframe her loving hands had made for him. As he grew older, he was very happy on winter evenings when his father and grown-up friends gathered around the fire and told stories of the old days of their people, before the coming of the white men.

There was a time when the red men had never seen

guns nor drunk fire-water. Then they hunted their prey with bows and arrows. They made their hatchets of stone. Their only coverings were of the skins of wild animals. In those good old days the Indians were stronger than now. They could go longer without food. They had less sickness.

When he heard these things, the little Pontiac thought, "My people are so great and strong, I can

hardly believe they could ever have been more powerful than they are now."

The chief's son also heard about the battles his father had fought and the scalps of enemies he had brought home. He listened to many a strange legend, too. There was one which his tribe loved dearly. It told how corn was first given to them. Corn! How could his people do without that precious and delicious grain? It would have been hard indeed.

Once upon a time,, so the story ran, the Ottawas lived on a group of islands in Lake Huron. But they had powerful enemies in another tribe who made war upon them and drove them from their home.

A certain man among them was a magician. He did not flee with the others. He said he would stay behind as a guard and watch what the enemy did. He got up very early one morning and went out to hunt in the thick woods where he could not be easily discovered.

After a while he found himself on the edge of a broad plain. He turned his sharp eyes in every direction. No one was in sight. He felt that it would be safe to cross the plain and started on his way. When he had gone some distance, a very small man with a red feather on his head suddenly appeared before him.