In the darkness of still nights pale phantom currents may creep into the denuded winding channels, guided by the unseen Power that directs the waters, and fade into the dim mists before the dawn. Under the brooding care of the Great Spirit for the departed children, ghostly war plumes may flutter softly among the leaves and tassels of the corn that wave over the Red Man’s lost domain, when the autumn winds whisper in the star-lit fields, for the land is peopled with shadows, and has passed into the realm of legend, romance and fancy. II THE SILVER ARROW The story of the arrow was slowly unravelled from the tangled thread of interrupted narrative related to us by old Waukena. She sat in her little log hut among the tall poplars and birches, beyond the farther end of Whippoorwill Bayou, and talked of the arrow during our visits, but never in a way that enabled us to connect the scattered fragments of the tale into proper sequence until we had heard various parts of it many times. She was a remnant of the Pottowattomies. She did not know when she was born, but, from her knowledge of events that happened in her lifetime, the approximate dates of which we knew, she must have been over ninety. Her solitary life and habitual silence had developed a taciturnity that steals upon those who dwell in the stillness of the forest. There was a far away look in the old eyes, and a tinge of bitterness in her low voice, as she talked sadly in her broken English, of the days that were gone. She cherished the traditions of her people, and their sorrows lingered in her heart. Like shriveled leaves clinging to withered boughs, her memories seemed to rustle faintly when a new breath of interest touched them, and from among these rustlings we culled the arrow’s story. The little cabin was very old. Its furnishings were in keeping with its occupant and sufficient for her simple needs. There was a rough stone fireplace at one end of the single room. A flat projecting boulder on one side of its interior provided a shelf for the few cooking utensils. They were hung on a rickety iron swinging arm over the wood fire when in use. A much worn turkey wing, with charred edges, lay near the hearth, with which the scattered ashes were dusted back into the fireplace. A bedstead, constructed of birch saplings, occupied the other end of the room. Several coon and fox skins, neatly sewed together, and a couple of gray blankets, laid over some rush mats, completed the sleeping arrangements. With the exception of a few bunches of bright hued feathers, stuck about in various chinks, the rough walls were bare of ornament. The other furniture consisted of a couple of low stools, a heavy rocking chair and a small pine table. A kerosene lantern and some candles illumined the squalid interior at night.