cco,
if he has any; if not, he mixes it with the dried and crumbled leaf of a
small and very bitter shrub that grows on the mountain-sides, and has a
leaf looking somewhat like our box-wood. The Indians call it
killicanick, and often mix it with tobacco when they have no red willow.
So fond are the Indians of their red-willow tobacco that they prefer it
to the real unmixed article, which seems to be too strong for them.

The squaws use the red willow to make temporary shelters or wick-i-ups,
which are used instead of the heavy skin lodges, or tepees, when the
Indians are on the move, and only camp in one place for a night or so.

When a pleasant spot by some running stream, where there is plenty of
red willow, has been fixed upon for a camping-place, and a fire has been
lighted, the squaws cut a quantity of the willow, and, making a rude
framework of the larger branches, of which the butt-ends are fixed
firmly into the ground, and the small ends bound together to look like a
small dome, they weave the smaller branches and twigs in and out until
the whole affair looks like a great leafy basket turned upside down. The
entrance is very low, and when once inside, a grown person can only lie
or sit down, for if he should stand up, he would probably lift the house
with him.

While the squaws are building the wick-i-ups the Indian has been
stretched on the ground, smoking his long-stemmed pipe, with its stone
or iron bowl, or else he has been kneeling beside the fire preparing his
much-loved red-willow tobacco. Over the same fire is hung a jack rabbit,
skinned, and spitted upon a slender red-willow stick, and from a tree
near by the baby swings in his red-willow cradle.

From the same red willow the squaws make baskets and mats. On its tender
twigs the ponies browse in winter, when the grass is covered deep with
snow. And to these same red-willow thickets the Indians go in winter in
search of deer or antelope, which are pretty sure to be found browsing
among them.

So you see the Indian has good reason to be fond of the red willow, and
he dreads the approach of white farmers, who clear it off from the rich
bottom-lands wherever they locate, for it is on these lands that they
can raise their heaviest crops of corn.

"THIS LITTLE PIG STAID AT HOME."

BY MARY DENSEL.

Six tow heads bobbing about a pen in the big barn. In the pen were
thirteen small pigs, all squealing as only small pigs know how to
squeal.

Th