Part 31 (1/2)

There was a brief silence, then a direct, straight look from the small Cree eyes, and the words, ”I like you--me.”

Mr. Enderby smiled. ”That's good; I like you, too, Little Wolf-Willow.

Now tell me, do you like your new clothes?”

”No good,” said the boy.

Mr. Enderby looked grave. ”But, my boy, that is what you must wear if you are to be educated. Do you know what the word 'education' means?

Have you ever heard the teachers or boys here use it?”

”White man, English,” came the quick reply.

”That's it; you have described it exactly. To become educated you must try and wear and do what the white people do--like the English, as you say,” Mr. Enderby went on. ”Now what about your hair? White men don't wear long hair, and you see all the Cree boys in the school have let me cut their hair. Wouldn't you like to be like them?”

”No; hair good,” said the boy.

”Well, how about a 'white' name?” asked Mr. Enderby. ”The other boys have taken them. Wouldn't you like me to call you John? I'd like to.”

”Me Wolf-Willow, same grandfather,” came in tones of p.r.o.nounced decision.

”Very well, Little Wolf-Willow, you must do as you like, you know; but you said when you came in that you liked me, and I like you very much.

Perhaps some day you will do these things to please me.” Then Mr.

Enderby added softly to himself, ”It will all come in time. It is pretty hard to ask any boy to give up his language, his clothes, his customs, his old-time way of living, his name, even the church of his fathers.

I must have patience, patience?”

”You speak?” asked the boy.

”Just to myself,” said Mr. Enderby.

”I speak,” said the little Indian, standing up and looking fearlessly into the superintendent's face. ”I speak. I keep hair, good. I keep name Wolf-Willow, good. I keep skin Indian color. I not white man's skin.

English skin no good. My skin best, good.”

Mr. Enderby laughed. ”No, no, Little Wolf-Willow, we won't try to change the color of your skin,” he said.

”No good try. I keep skin, better skin than white man. I keep skin, me.”

And the next instant he was gone.

Miss Watson, the matron, appeared at the door. ”What have you done to Little Wolf-Willow?” she asked in surprise. ”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, d.i.c.k, 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.