So the four of us were sitting in a close circle with a steaming pot of veal in the center. _Pae zhuta sapa_ [black medicine] bubbled in the battered coffee pot on the sheet-iron stove, and there was plenty of _chun humpi_ [juice of the tree, sugar] to sweeten it. Bread, cookies, and canned peaches were close at hand. As giver of the feast and the youngest of the party, I had filled the tin cups with meat and broth, passed the bread around, and filled other tin cups with coffee liberally dosed with sugar. I had been greeted by each in turn, “_Ho!_ Grandson, _how_!” To this greeting, Eagle Voice had added: “This is indeed my grandson. See! He has given me these fine warm moccasins. Now my toes do not smart when I get wood in the snow.” When the moccasins had been examined and generously approved, No Water, the older of the guests, both of whom were younger than Eagle Voice, had a little speech to make. It was to the effect that I could not help being a Wasichu any more than he could be other than a Lakota. And, indeed, a little brown paint on my face and a blanket--“Could not tell the difference,” he said; “could be Ta Shunka Witko [Crazy Horse].” I thanked him for the too generous compliment, and his round, bulbous-nosed countenance, that normally bore a vaguely grieved, apprehensive look, glowed with good humor. “Maybe Wakon Tonka gave him a Lakota heart,” Moves Walking added. “Maybe if all Wasichus were so, things would be better.” Wiry and smallish for a Sioux, a cast in his left eye gave to his sharp, shriveled face an air of angry intensity; but now even the recalcitrant off-eye softened a bit with good will. Having first offered choice morsels of meat to the _wahnagi_, we fell to serious eating with fingers and sharp knives, the latter for cutting off the bite. Eagle Voice broke the silence with a remark to the effect that the meat was tender. “Even I can chew it, and most of my teeth are uprooted. I might be eating the first young calf I killed when I was a boy. I think this will make me stronger.” When it was unanimously agreed that the meat was tender and _washtay_, we resumed the serious business of eating in silence. At last, the peaches and cakes having been sampled and approved, the pipe went round and Eagle Voice spoke: “Our grandson likes to hear stories, and I have told him many already. There is a story about a dog. I have heard No Water tell it.” “_Dho_,” assented No Water; “it is a true story [_woya kapi_]. I can prove it by a Hunkpapa, much older than I am, who told it to me.”