A little Indian boy from another tribe was hunting in the woods. His father had been killed in battle. His mother was hungry, and he had gone out to get meat for her. He heard the war whoops of the warriors, but he was not afraid. He came and watched them shoot at the bird. “Let me shoot,” said the little boy. The warriors were very angry, but the head chief said, “Let him shoot.” The warriors waited, and the boy shot his arrow. The bird fell to the ground close by the boy. He gave the splendid wampum-bird to the head chief. The boy was married to the head chief’s beautiful daughter the next day. He was now a chief’s son, and his own mother was hungry no more. His father had been slain by the head chief’s warriors. The boy chief made a law that wampum should be the price of peace. When war was to be declared the tomahawk should be painted on a belt of wampum; it should be sent to the tribe they would fight against; when the war was over the two tribes should exchange belts of wampum as promises of peace. The head chief sent a wampum belt to the boy chief’s tribe; then they had peace. This is the story the tribes tell of how wampum came to be used for war and for peace. Adapted from “Iroquois Myths,” Powell’s Report. XL. THE MAGIC MOCCASINS (Chippewa) An Indian hunter shot at a moose, but his arrow missed and took the life of another hunter, the brother of Wahkandee the Lightning. Mukwa, who had made the fatal shot, wore a pair of wonderful moccasins. A manitou had prepared the leather in the moccasins for himself. The manitou had whispered many secrets to the leather; but he gave it all to the hunter’s wife because of his love for her husband. Wahkandee, the avenger, came into the forest where Mukwa, the moose hunter, was hiding. He saw the feathers in Mukwa’s hair and shot his arrows to avenge his brother. He heard the dry bushes crackle and crept to the place where Mukwa had been. There lay a pair of fine moccasins and many dry moose bones. “I will take the fine moccasins. Mukwa will want them. I will find him.” Wahkandee reached down to take the moccasins, but they slipped away from his fingers. The moccasins fled across the lake, and Wahkandee followed in his canoe. They crept through the thick brush in the forest on the shores of the lake. Wahkandee followed like the swift feet of Skika the wood duck. The thorns tore his buckskin suit, but he never stopped in the chase. The moccasins seemed to be always within the reach of his hands, but he could never touch them. Wahkandee thought that the black cloud at the edge of the earth would stop the race; when he reached the place of the black cloud, it was gone. The moccasins were always before him.