"Why, he is careering down
the hall at a breakneck speed."
"I believe the child thought I was going to skin him, to make a white
boy out of him," laughed Mr. Enderby.
"Poor little chap! I expect you wanted to cut off his hair," said Miss
Watson, "and perhaps call him Tom, Dick, Harry, or some such name."
"I did," answered the superintendent. "The other boys have all come
to it."
"Yes, I know they have," agreed Miss Watson, "but there is something
about that boy that makes me think that you'll never get his hair or
his name away from him."
And she was right. They never did.
It was six years before Little Wolf-Willow again entered the door of
his father's tepee. He returned to the Crooked Lakes speaking English
fluently, and with the excellent appointment of interpreter for the
Government Indian Agent. The instant his father saw him, the alert Cree
eye noted the uncut hair. Nothing could have so pleased old Beaver-Tail.
He had held for years a fear in his heart that the school would utterly
rob him of his boy. Little Wolf-Willow's mother arose from preparing
an antelope stew for supper.
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