o soon; for as we
reached the ground on the safe side, he stopped us, and angrily
demanded the contents of our basket. We opened it, and when he saw what
it contained he stamped his wabbling foot and motioned us to be off. We
obeyed with alacrity, for it was our first experience with a drunken
Indian, and greatly alarmed us.

The tea may have eased Jakie's pain, but it did not accomplish what we
had hoped. One morning late in Summer, he asked grandpa to bring a
lawyer and witnesses so that he could make his will. This request made
us all move about very quietly and feel very serious. After the lawyer
went away, grandma told us that Jakie had willed us each fifty dollars
in gold, and the rest of his property to grandpa and herself. A few
weeks later, when the sap ceased flowing to the branches of the trees,
and the yellow leaves were falling, we laid Jakie beside other friends
in the oak grove within sight of our house.

Grandma put on deep mourning, but Georgia and I had only black
sun-bonnets, which we wore with heartfelt grief. The following Spring
grandpa had the grave enclosed with a white paling; and we children
planted Castilian rose bushes at the head and foot of the mound, and
carried water to them from the house, and in time their branches met
and the grave was a bed of fragrant blossoms.

One day as I was returning from it with my empty pail, a tidy,
black-eyed woman came up to me and said,

"I'm a Cherokee Indian, the wife of one of the three drovers that sold
the Brunners them long-horned cattle that was delivered the other day.
I know who you are, and if you'll sit on that log by me, I'll tell you
something."

We took the seats shaded by the fence and she continued with
unmistakable pride: "I can read and write quite a little, and me and
the men belong to the same tribe. We drove our band of cattle across
the plains and over the Sierras, and have sold them for more than we
expected to get. We are going back the same road, but first I wanted to
see you little girls. I heard lots about your father's party, and how
you all suffered in the mountains, and that no one seems to remember
what became of his body. Now, child, I tell the truth. I stood by your
father's grave and read his name writ on the headboard, and come to
tell you that he was buried in a long grave near his own camp in the
mountains. I'm glad at seeing you, but am going away, wishing you
wasn't so cut off from your own people."

So earnes