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Little Wolf-willow Little Wolf-willow

Little Wolf-willow
Old Beaver-tail hated many things, but most of all he hated the North-West Mounted Police. Not that they had ever molested or worried him in his far corner of the Crooked Lakes Indian Reserve, but they stood for the enforcing of the white man's laws, and old Beaver-Tail hated the white man. He would sit for hours together in his big tepee counting his piles of furs, smoking, grumbling and storming at the inroads of the palefaces on to his lands and hunting grounds. Consequently it was an amazing surprise to everybody when he consented to let his eldest son, Little... Short Stories - Post by : christof21 - Date : September 2011 - Author : E. Pauline Johnson - Read : 1492

The Saucy Seven The Saucy Seven

The Saucy Seven
Probably Bob Stuart would never have been asked to join the camping party had he not been the best canoeist in the Club. He was so much younger than the other half dozen that composed the party that his joining was much discussed, but there were no two opinions about Bob's paddling nor yet about his ability to pitch a tent, cast a fly, shoot small game at long range, and, when you are far up North, on a canoe cruise, and have to depend on the forest and river to supply your dinner, you don't sneer at an enthusiastic fisherman... Short Stories - Post by : katsharad - Date : September 2011 - Author : E. Pauline Johnson - Read : 3283

The Shadow Trail The Shadow Trail

The Shadow Trail
Peter Ottertail was a full-blooded Mohawk Indian, who, notwithstanding his almost eighty years, still had the fine, thin features, the upright shoulders, and the keen, bright eyes of the ancient, warlike tribe to which he belonged. He was a great favorite with Mr. Duncan, the earnest Scotch minister, who had made a personal companion of Peter all through the years he had been a missionary on the Indian Reserve; and as for the two Duncan boys, they had literally been brought up in the hollow of the old Indian's hands. How those boys had ever acquired the familiar names of "Tom"... Short Stories - Post by : moneymancn - Date : September 2011 - Author : E. Pauline Johnson - Read : 1954

The Signal Code The Signal Code

The Signal Code
Ever since Benny Ellis had been a little bit of a shaver he had played at "railroad." Not just now and again, as other boys do, but he rarely touched a game or a sport before he would ingeniously twist it into a "pretend" railroad. Marbles were to him merely things to be used to indicate telegraph poles, with glass and agate alleys as stations. Sliding down hill on a bobsleigh, he invariably tooted and whistled like an engine, and trudging uphill he puffed and imitated a heavy freight climbing up grade. The ball grounds were to him the "Y" at... Short Stories - Post by : bigglen - Date : September 2011 - Author : E. Pauline Johnson - Read : 3064

The Brotherhood The Brotherhood

The Brotherhood
"What is the silver chain for, Queetah?" asked the boy, lifting the tomahawk* and running the curious links between his thumb and fingers. "I never saw one before." (*The tomahawk and avenging knife spoken of in the story are both in the possession of the writer, the knife having been buried for seventy-three years on the estate where she was born.) The Mohawk smiled. "That is because few tomahawks content themselves with times of peace. While war lives, you will never see a silver chain worn by an Iroquois, nor will you see it on anything he possesses," he answered. "Then... Short Stories - Post by : The_Renegade - Date : September 2011 - Author : E. Pauline Johnson - Read : 3272

Gun-shy Billy Gun-shy Billy

Gun-shy Billy
"No, sir! Not for me," Bert Hooper was saying. "I won't join the crowd if Billy is going. Do you fellows suppose I'm going to have my holiday all spoiled, and not get any game, all because you want Billy? _He's_ no good on a hunting trip. I tell you he's gun-shy." "That's so," said another boy. "I've seen him stop his ears with his fingers when Bert shot his gun off--more than once, too." "Ought to be named 'Gussie,'" said Bert. "A great big fellow like Billy, _scared of a gun_! He must be sixteen, and large for his age... Short Stories - Post by : Shane_Howell - Date : September 2011 - Author : E. Pauline Johnson - Read : 1223

The King Georgeman The King Georgeman

The King Georgeman
I "So the little King Georgeman comes to-morrow, eh, Tillicum?" asked the old Lillooet hunter. "Yes, comes for all summer," replied "Banty" Clark, "and I've got to be polite and show him around, and, I suppose, stay in the ranch house all the hot weather while his nibs togs up in his London clothes, 'don't yer know,' and drinks five-o'clock tea, and does nothing but stare at the toes of his patent leather shoes. Pshaw! What a prospect! Ever see patent leather shoes, Eena?" asked Banty, with some disgust. "I don't know, me. I think not," replied The Eena. "You're lucky,"... Short Stories - Post by : chazz - Date : September 2011 - Author : E. Pauline Johnson - Read : 1913

The Delaware Idol The Delaware Idol

The Delaware Idol
(*This tale is absolutely true. The writer's father was the boy who destroyed the Delaware idol, the head of which is at this time one of the treasures in the family collection of Indian relics and curios.) Young "Wampum" sat listening to the two old hunters as they talked and chuckled, boasted and bragged, and smoked their curious stone pipes hour after hour. He was a splendid boy, this Wampum of the Mohawks, as quick and lithe as a lynx. His face was strikingly handsome, for it lacked the usual melancholy of the redman, having in its place a haughty, daring... Short Stories - Post by : bkimmich - Date : September 2011 - Author : E. Pauline Johnson - Read : 2846

The Whistling Swans The Whistling Swans

The Whistling Swans
For several evenings early in October the North Street boys had been gathering at Benson's to try and organize a club, but the difficulty seemed to be to decide upon what kind of a club would be most interesting. The ball season would soon be over, the long winter would soon be on them, and things wore a pretty flat outlook, unless they could arrange some interesting diversion for that string of dull days, only broken by Christmas holidays. The West Ward fellows had a Checker Club, the Third Form fellows had a Puzzle Club, the Collegiates had a Canadian Literature... Short Stories - Post by : deciste - Date : September 2011 - Author : E. Pauline Johnson - Read : 1600

Maurice Of His Majesty's Mails Maurice Of His Majesty's Mails

Maurice Of His Majesty's Mails
Old Maurice Delorme boasted the blood of many nations; his "bulldog" grit came to him from an English sea-captain, a bluff, genial old tar whom he could recall as being his "grand-daddy" sixty years ago; his gay, rollicking love of laughter and song came to him through his half French father; his love of wood and water lore, his endurance, his gift of strategy, were his birthright directly from his Red Indian mother; consequently there was but one place in the world where such a trinity of nationalities could be fostered in one man, but one place where that man could... Short Stories - Post by : SiteHunt - Date : September 2011 - Author : E. Pauline Johnson - Read : 2074

The Broken String The Broken String

The Broken String
Archie Anderson was lying on the lounge that was just hidden from the front room by a bend of the folding doors. He was utterly tired out, with that unreasonable weariness that comes from what most of his boy chums called "doing nothing." He had been standing still, practising for two hours steadily, and his throbbing head and weakening knees finally conquered his energy. He flung himself down among the pillows, his violin and bow on a nearby chair. Then a voice jarred on every nerve of his sensitive body; it was a lady's voice in the next room, and she... Short Stories - Post by : Chris_Custer - Date : September 2011 - Author : E. Pauline Johnson - Read : 1475

The Barnardo Boy The Barnardo Boy

The Barnardo Boy
The only thing that young Buckney could say to express his surprise at the wonderful stone buildings was "Blow me!" He had expected to find that the great Canadian city of Montreal would be just a few slab shacks, with forests on all sides, and painted Indians prowling, tomahawk in hand, in search of scalps. When he left the big Atlantic liner with twenty other raw English lads of his own street-bred sort, he thought he was saying good-bye to civilization forever. And here, all around him, arose the massive stone-built city, teeming with life, with gayety, wealth, and poverty, carriages,... Short Stories - Post by : spinnergrants - Date : September 2011 - Author : E. Pauline Johnson - Read : 2528

Jack O' Lantern Jack O' Lantern

Jack O' Lantern
I Everybody along the river knew old "Andy" Lavergne; for years he had been "the lamplighter," if such an office could exist in the rough backwoods settlement that bordered that treacherous stream in the timber country of northern Ontario. He had been a great, husky man in his time, who could swing an axe with the best of the lumbermen, but an accident in a log jam had twisted his sturdy legs and hips for life, and laid him off active service, and now he must cease to accompany the great gangs of choppers in the lumber camps, and do his... Short Stories - Post by : tanya_m_curry - Date : September 2011 - Author : E. Pauline Johnson - Read : 2659

Sons Of Savages Sons Of Savages

Sons Of Savages
Life-Training of the Redskin Boy-child The redskin boy-child who looks out from his little cradle-board on a world of forest through whose trails his baby feet are already being fitted to follow is not many hours old before careful hands wrap him about with gay-beaded bands that are strapped to the carven and colored back-board that will cause him to stand erect and upright when he is a grown warrior. His small feet are bound against a foot support so that they are exactly straight; that is to start his walk in life aright. He is but an atom in the... Essays - Post by : justaskjoe - Date : September 2011 - Author : E. Pauline Johnson - Read : 1350

The Scarlet Eye The Scarlet Eye

The Scarlet Eye
"I tell you that fellow is an Indian! You can't fool me! Look at the way he walks! He doesn't _step_; he _pads_ like a panther!" Billy ceased speaking, but still pointed an excited forefinger along the half-obliterated buffalo trail that swung up the prairie, out of the southern horizon. The two boys craned their necks, watching the coming figure, that advanced at a half-trot, half-stride. Billy was right. The man seemed to be moving on cushioned feet. Nothing could give that slow, springing swing except a moccasin. "Any man is welcome," almost groaned little Jerry, "but, oh, how much more... Short Stories - Post by : ksmith - Date : September 2011 - Author : E. Pauline Johnson - Read : 2227

The Potlatch The Potlatch

The Potlatch
(*"Potlatch" is a Chinook word meaning "a gift." Among the Indian tribes of British Columbia it is used as the accepted name of a great feast, which some Indian, who is exceedingly well off, gives to scores of guests. He entertains them for days, sometimes for weeks, together, presenting them with innumerable blankets and much money, for it is part of the Indian code of honor that, which one has great possessions, he must divide them with his less fortunate tribesmen. The gifts of money usually take the form of ten-dollar bank notes, and are bestowed broadcast upon any man, woman... Short Stories - Post by : Sponge - Date : September 2011 - Author : E. Pauline Johnson - Read : 1985

We-hro's Sacrifice We-hro's Sacrifice

We-hro's Sacrifice
A Story of a Boy and a Dog We-hro was a small Onondaga Indian boy, a good-looking, black-eyed little chap with as pagan a heart as ever beat under a copper-colored skin. His father and grandfathers were pagans. His ancestors for a thousand years back, and yet a thousand years back of that, had been pagans, and We-hro, with the pride of his religion and his race, would not have turned from the faith of his fathers for all the world. But the world, as he knew it, consisted entirely of the Great Indian Reserve, that lay on the banks of... Short Stories - Post by : creme - Date : September 2011 - Author : E. Pauline Johnson - Read : 2886

The Wolf-brothers The Wolf-brothers

The Wolf-brothers
Leloo's father and mother were both of the great Lillooet tribe of British Columbia Indians, splendid people of a stalwart race of red men, who had named the boy Leloo because, from the time he could toddle about on his little, brown, bare feet, he had always listened with delight to the wolves howling across the canyons and down the steeps of the wonderful mountain country where he was born. In the Chinook language Leloo means wolf, and before the little fellow could talk he would stand nightly at the lodge door and imitate the long, weird barking and calling of... Short Stories - Post by : kintzele - Date : September 2011 - Author : E. Pauline Johnson - Read : 1357

Hoolool Of The Totem Pole Hoolool Of The Totem Pole

Hoolool Of The Totem Pole
A Story of the North Pacific Coast The upcoast people called her "Hoolool," which means "The Mouse" in the Chinook tongue. For was she not silent as the small, grey creature that depended on its own bright eyes and busy little feet to secure a living? The fishermen and prospectors had almost forgotten the time when she had not lived alone with her little son, "Tenas," for although Big Joe, her husband, had been dead but four years, time travels slowly north of Queen Charlotte Sound, and four years on the "Upper Coast" drag themselves more leisurely than twelve at the... Short Stories - Post by : Sincerelydan - Date : September 2011 - Author : E. Pauline Johnson - Read : 920

A Night With 'north Eagle' A Night With "north Eagle"

A Night With 'north Eagle'
A Tale Founded on Fact. The great transcontinental express was swinging through the Canadian North-West territories into the land of the Setting Sun. Its powerful engine throbbed along the level track of the prairie. The express, mail, baggage, first-class and sleeping coaches followed like the pliant tail of a huge eel. Then the wheels growled out the tones of lessening speed. The giant animal slowed up, then came to a standstill. The stop awoke Norton Allan, who rolled over in his berth with a peculiar wide-awake sensation, and waited vainly for the train to resume its flight towards the Rockies. Some... Short Stories - Post by : andyf13 - Date : September 2011 - Author : E. Pauline Johnson - Read : 1288