At the close of the song they gave me a graphic description of the attack on the camp when it was pitched on the Republican river. Although the enemy was repulsed, and the hunting ground secured to our people, the battle cost many lives, several of the enemy's warriors were left on the field, and the Omahas lost some of their bravest men. While yet the boys were telling of the thrilling incidents of the battle, we arose with a sudden impulse and rushed down the hill with loud war-cries, as though attacking the foe, the tall grass snapping against our moccasined feet as we sped along. We were rapidly approaching a house which stood alone, when one of the older boys who was running ahead suddenly stopped and raised his hand as though to command silence. Immediately our shouts ceased, and, seeing the serious look on the lad's face, "What is it?" we asked in frightened tones as we gathered about him. Without a word he pointed to a woman who was cutting the tall sunflower stalks that had almost hidden her little dwelling with their golden blossoms. Her long black hair flowed over her shoulders unbraided, a sign of mourning. Now and again she would pause in her work to look up at the humble home and utter sighs and sobs that told a tale of sorrow. Mingled with these outpourings of grief came often the words, "My husband! my little child!" with terms of endearment and tenderness for which I can find no equivalent in English. On a blanket spread over the ground near by sat a tot of a child babbling to itself and making the beheaded sunflowers kiss each other, innocently oblivious of its mother's grief. It was a sad home-coming for the woman; the spirit of her husband had fled to the dark clouds of the west to join the host of warriors who had died on the field of battle, and his bones lay bleaching in the sands of a far-off country. "It is Gre-don-ste-win weeping for her husband who was killed in the battle last summer," whispered the big boy; "let us go away quietly." When we had withdrawn to a distance where we were sure our noise would not disturb the mourner, one of the boys called out, "Let's play Oo-hae'ba-shon-shon!" (Tortuous path). Years after I learned that this game was played by the children of the white people, and that they called it, "Follow my leader." We graded ourselves according to size, the biggest boy at the head as leader. Each one took hold of the belt of the boy in front of him, and then we started off at a rapid jog-trot, keeping time to this little song which we sang at the top of our voices. [Music: CHILDREN'S SONG "FOLLOW MY LEADER." Yo hay yo ae ha ra o ha. Ya hay yo ae yo ha o ha.]