“You see, he just takes the frying pan like this—gives it two or three little wiggles—then throws the pan-cake up in the air and makes it turn a ‘somerset’ like the circus performer did, and then lets it splash back into the pan. Ask Joe to let us try one before the others come to breakfast. Shall we?” All thoughts of any attempts in the culinary art were displaced by the soft sound of a moccasined foot behind them. “Peter Pan” clung tightly to Bess’ hand as they watched the slow approach of the old Indian. What a wrinkled, old visage, hardened by the vicissitudes of years, attenuated by many fasts. A mat of coarse, grey hair partially covered eyes that were still keen and undimmed by the ravages of time. The tattered blanket illy concealed his quivering form, while worn and ragged moccasins scarcely protected his feet from the stones and thorns. Bess’ heart melted by the picture of abject want, and with a few, quick signs she asked the old Indian “would he eat.” A grin of acquiescence was her reply, and soon she had placed before him such a feast as he had never seen before. He fell to devouring the food, almost like a hungry dog, but was checked by a decisive touch on the shoulder. A look of surprise filled his eyes as he paused with open mouth ready to receive the next morsel. “Shame;” firmly said the girl; “Why forget to thank God?” and she raised her hand toward heaven. Slowly the food was replaced upon the plate; a look of incredulity rested for a moment upon the seamed, old face; then with eyes turned toward the crests of the hills all radiant with the glow of the morning, a withered, dirty hand reverently made the sign of the cross. When his hunger was appeased he bestowed upon his benefactor a look of thanks. “You go catch fish. Bring nice trout here. More muck-a-muck tonight,” instructed Bess with numerous gestures. The old Indian nodded that he understood and then explained his futile attempt to catch fish the day before. No word did he speak. He waved his hand slowly toward the direction of the North shore of the Big Arm, showed how he had cast the line again and again, but had caught no fish; how he had fished unceasingly all the while the sun arose from its eastern horizon to the zenith and until it had descended to rest behind the hills; how he had returned to his teepee with his willow switch empty and had gone hungry to sleep. Now it was again day! He motioned that he would walk far along the lake’s opposite shore where the rocks jutted into the water—there—could she see? Pointing to some beef which was hung up in the tree he made Bess understand that with the aid of that for bait he could catch the wily trout as fast as he could cast the hook, and that soon his basket of willows and leaves would be full. Soon he was sent on his way rejoicing,—happy because his stomach’s craving had ceased, glad because of the hope of another meal.