“And while I was running, I looked back over my shoulder to see how big a boy was chasing me. And it was not a big boy or even a little boy. It was a girl--a pretty little girl--but she looked terrible with her hair all over her head in the wind she made with her running; and she was yelling and swinging a rawhide rope while she ran. I was longer legged than she was, but she caught me around the neck with her rope anyway. Maybe all at once I wanted to be caught. And she said, ‘You bad boy! You are just a _shonka-’kan_ [horse], and you are going to pull my tepee.’ “So I let her lead me back to her village; and all the Miniconjou boys poked their fingers at me and yelled and wanted to charge me and coup me; but she picked up a stick and yelled back at them, ‘You leave my horse alone or I will hit you.’ And, of course, if I was a horse I wasn’t a warrior any more. “So I got down on my hands and knees and she hitched the drag-poles on me and packed her tepee on them. And when I snorted and pranced, she petted me on the rump and sang to me, so that I was as tame as the other little boys who were being horses too and helping to move camp away from the enemy country.” For a while, Eagle Voice seemed to have forgotten me, gazing over my head with a faraway illuminated look. Then he spoke slowly in a low voice as though talking to himself: “Tashina Wanblee [Her Eagle Robe]. She was a pretty little girl. I liked to play over there; and she said I was the best horse she ever had.” Then, becoming aware of me again, he continued, chuckling: “But one day I got tired of playing horse; so I stood up on my hind legs and I said: ‘When I get just a little bigger I am going to marry you, and you are going to be my woman.’ And she stuck her tongue out at me and said: ‘You are only a _shonka-’kan_. Go and eat grass!’” The old man’s laughter trailed off into silence and the boy look went away. II _When the Hundred Died_ “--And what became of the little girl, Grandfather?” I asked at length. “Did you marry her when you got a little bigger?” For some time the old man had seemed unconscious of me as he sat there studying the ground, blowing softly now and then upon an eagle-bone whistle suspended from his neck by a rawhide thong. He fixed a squinting, quizzical gaze upon me and said: “That is a story, Grandson, and so is this whistle. I can hear it crying across many snows and grasses. Why are Wasichus always in a hurry? It is not good.” Then he lapsed into meditation as before, blowing softly now and then upon the wing-bone, polished with the handling of many years. “_Sheetsha!_” he said at last in an explosive whisper. “What is bad, Grandfather?” I asked.