In 1831, a few weeks after we were settled at Big Island, father came into the house, from his work, one day, and there, seated complacently by the stove, watching mother about her cooking, was the veritable Shavehead, still with his head shaved, save the scalp-lock. This time they shook hands as friends indeed, but the stolid face wore no smile as before. From that time he was a frequent visitor and we all learned to like him and respect him. He belonged to no tribe about us; did not associate with other Indians. If he happened to be in the house, with them, when mother was distributing food, as was often the case, they would divide it among themselves, leaving out Shavehead, who received his portion direct from mother, and ate it in stern silence, amid the sociable chattering of the others. Shavehead was very peculiar. He never carried a gun, but was always armed with a powerful bow and arrows and a murderous looking tomahawk and knife, but the 90 scalps at his belt we never saw. He never rode a pony, like the others, and never got drunk, as the others surely did, whenever they could get the fire water of the whites. So far as we could know, he was without an Indian fault or foible. Long afterwards, when the Potawatomies were gathered up by the government and taken away to a new reservation, in the west, there was one Indian they could never find. They searched the woods diligently for months, but Shavehead mysteriously melted out of all knowledge, leaving only kindly memories of a brave old chief and a steadfast, though silent friend. EARLY DAYS IN PRAIRIE RONDE. BY O. H. FELLOWS. Read by Miss Anna Fellows. This old story that has been so often told and with so many variations had its beginning for me nearly seventy years ago.