The Crow gave a harsh cry, which resembled a caw, as he saw her go, and began screaming at the top of his voice: “Stop--stop--I’ll bring you back, and punish you for this.” But he could not free himself to follow her. Deerfoot had fastened his tail too securely to the crossbar for him to loosen it easily. It took him nearly an hour to untie the last knot, for it was no easy task to reach around behind his back, and, by the sense of touch alone, pick out countless knots tied in wet leather. By the time the Crow had untied all the thongs that held him. Deerfoot was far away in the forest, so he sunk his canoe, resumed his bird shape once more and flew off screeching as he went: “Again I have tricked my enemy--man.” Mandowmin of the Maize [Illustration: AS TALL AS A MAN IT STOOD (_See Page 55_)] Mandowmin of the Maize In the history of the Pilgrims and their early struggles on the bleak shores of New England, it is told how they were taught by the friendly Indians, Samoset and Squanto, to plant Indian corn, which soon became one of the principal articles of food on their tables. And even now, after nearly three hundred years, there is scarcely any food we think of as more truly American, than corn meal mush, or piping hot corn cakes. But long long ago, before the feet of white men ever trod the forest of the New World, as America was called in those days, and while Indians in vast numbers roamed over the land, there was a time when Indian corn or maize was unknown even to the red men. Their food consisted almost entirely of meat--the fleet-footed deer and wild turkey--and fish from the little trout streams. Sometimes a handful of sweet berries was found, which added zest to the meal. Life ran on smoothly in the summer time, for then the Indians lived well, but when the long, snowy New England winters set in, it was quite a different matter. The streams froze over, the birds flew south, and the deer retreated farther into the depths of the forest. Sometimes when there had been an unusually large number of deer killed in the fall, the Indian women cut up the flesh into strips and dried it in the warm bright autumn sunshine. This dried meat was then stored away for the long winter. But the supply seldom lasted until spring, and the people had to face days of famine and suffering during which many of them died. Now it chanced in those days that there lived a little Indian boy named Waso. He was the son of a chieftain, and like his father he had a kind and gentle heart. The chieftain never forgot to give thanks to the Great Spirit for every catch of fish and for every nimble deer his sharp arrows killed. When times of famine fell upon the tribe, he shared with them until he had no more left to give, and he was constantly trying to discover ways in which he might help his people.