cutest stories!"

"A story-teller always makes a friend of Nell!" laughed her father. "Even
White Buffalo can charm her with what he has to say when it comes to
stories."

"White Buffalo is a nice Indian," answered the little miss promptly. "The
next time he comes here he said he would make me a big, big wooden doll,
with joints that would move, and glass beads for eyes."

"You won't fail to keep him busy, if he lets you," came from Dave, as he
kicked the snow from his feet and came into the cabin. He threw his game on
a bench and hung up his bag, musket, outer coat, and his hat. "Something
smells good in here," he declared.

"You've walked yourselves into an appetite," said Rodney. He picked up the
wild turkeys. "Good big fellows, aren't they? You've earned your supper."

The game was placed in a cold pantry, to be cleaned and dressed on the
morrow, and then the inmates of the cabin gathered around the table to
enjoy what Mrs. Morris had to offer.

It was a scene common in those days. The living-room floor was bare and so
was the long table, but both were scrubbed to a whiteness and cleanliness
that could not be excelled. On either side of the table were rude, but
substantial benches, and at the ends were chairs which had been in use for
several generations. In a corner of the room stood Mrs. Morris's
spinning-wheel and behind this was a shelf containing the family Bible,
half a dozen books, and a pile of newspapers which had been carefully
preserved from time to time, including copies of the "Pennsylvania