His older brother was the chief, tall and terrible, with the
scowl of thunder on his brow and the gleaming fork of lightning in his
eyes. This chief thought never of council fires or pipes or hunting or
fishing, he troubled not about joining the other young men in their
sports of lacrosse or snow-snake, or bowl-and-beans; to him there was
nothing in life but the warpath, no song but the war cry, no color but
the war paint. Daily he sharpened his scalping knife, daily he polished
his tomahawk, daily feathered and poisoned his arrows, daily he sought
enemies, taunted them, insulted them, braved them and conquered them;
while his young brother, Ok-wa-ho, rested in their lodge listening to
the wisdom of the old men, learning their laws and longing for peace.
Once Ok-wa-ho had said, 'My brother, stay with us, wash from thy cheeks
the black and scarlet; thy tomahawk has two ends: one is an edge, dyed
often in blood, but show us that thou hast not forgotten how to use the
other end--fill thy pipe.'
"'Little brother,' replied the chief, 'thou art yet but a stripling boy;
smoke, then, the peace pipe, but it is not for me.
Pages:
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336