win glory by stealing a bear cub when its
mother isn't looking, or a neighboring tribe drops in between days for
an unfriendly visit, and some big painted devil knocks him over the head
and takes his scalp home to his own little boy to play with.

Contrariwise, if he does manage to grow up and reach man's estate he's
got something to brag of. Only he doesn't do it; because the first thing
that people learn who have to live very intimately together is that bore
and boaster are synonymous terms. So he never brags of what he has
accomplished in the way of deeds and experiences until he is married.
And then only in the privacy of his own lodge, when that big hickory
stick which he keeps for the purpose assures him of the beloved one's
best ears and most flattering attention.

Andramark's father was worse than dead. He had been tried in the
council-lodge by the elders, and had been found guilty of something
which need not be gone into here, and driven forth into the wilderness
which surrounded the summer village to shift for himself. By the same
judgment the culprit's wife, Squirrel Eyes, was pronounced a widow. Most
women in her position would have been ambitious to marry again, but
Squirrel Eyes's only ambition was to raise her seventh son to be the
pride and support of her old age. She had had quite enough of marriage,
she would have thanked you.

So, when Andramark was thirteen years old, and very swift and husky for
his age, Squirrel Eyes went to the Wisest Medicine-man, and begged him
to take her boy in hand and make a man of him.

"Woman," the Wisest Medicine-man had said, "fifteen is the very greenest
age at which boys are made men, but seeing that you are a widow, and
without support, it may be that something can be done. We will look into
the matter."

That was why Owl Eyes, the Wisest Medicine-man, invited two of his
cronies to sit with him on the bluff overlooking the salt-marsh and
watch the children playing at marriage-by-capture.

Those old men were among the best judges of sports and form living. They
could remember three generations of hunters and fighters. They had all
the records for jumping, swimming under water, spear-throwing,
axe-throwing, and bow-shooting at their tongues' ends. And they knew the
pedigree for many, many generations of every child at that moment
playing in the meadow, and into just what sort of man or woman that
child should grow, with good luck and proper training.

Owl Eyes d