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Updated: May 22, 2025
He would undoubtedly have scalped the eagle but that nature had anticipated him. "Why is the Great Chief sad?" asked Mushymush, softly. "Does his soul still yearn for the blood of the pale-faced teachers? Did not the scalping of two professors of geology in the Yale exploring party satisfy his warrior's heart yesterday? Has he forgotten that Hayden and Clarence King are still to follow?
"A life insurance agent." A dark scowl settled on the face of the chief. "I thought it was a book peddler." "Why is my brother's heart sore against the book peddler?" asked Mushymush. "Because," said the Boy Chief fiercely, "I am again without my regular dime novel and I thought he might have one in his pack. Hear me, Mushymush.
He was seated alone in his wigwam, attended only by the gentle Mushymush, fairest of the "Pigeon Feet" maidens. Nowhere were the characteristics of her great tribe more plainly shown than in the little feet that lapped over each other in walking. A single glance at the chief was sufficient to show the truth of the wild rumors respecting his youth.
"But in her captivity," continued Mushymush, "she managed to stain her face with poke-berry juice, and mingling with the Indian maidens was enabled to pass for one of the tribe. Once undetected, she boldly ingratiated herself with the Boy Chief, how honestly and devotedly he best can tell, for I, Mushymush, the little sister of the Boy Chief, am Eliza Jane Sniffen."
Then she looked up proudly. "My brother has spoken. It is well. He shall have his dime novel. He shall know what kind of a hair-pin his sister Mushymush is." And she arose and gamboled lightly as the fawn out of his presence. In two hours she returned. In one hand she held three small flaxen scalps, in the other "The Boy Marauder," complete in one volume, price ten cents.
The slight girlish form of Mushymush with outstretched hands stood between the exasperated Pirate Prodigy and the Boy Chief. "Forbear," she said sternly to Chitterlings; "you know not what you do." The two youths paused. "Hear me," she said rapidly. "When captured in a confectioner's shop at New Rochelle, E. J. Sniffen was taken back to poverty. She resolved to become a schoolmistress.
He had returned to his wigwam after an exhausting buffalo hunt, in which he had slain two hundred and seventy-five buffaloes with his own hand, not counting the individual buffalo on which he had leaped, so as to join the herd, and which he afterward led into the camp a captive and a present to the lovely Mushymush.
"I thought it was a book-peddler." "Why is my brother's heart sore against the book-peddler?" asked Mushymush. "Because," said the Boy Chief, fiercely, "I am again without my regular dime novel, and I thought he might have one in his pack.
He could not but feel, too, that the gentle Mushymush, although devoted to her pale-faced brother, was deficient in culinary education. Her mince pies were abominable; her jam far inferior to that made by his Aunt Sally of Doemville. Only an unexpected incident kept him equally from the extreme of listless Sybaritic indulgence, or of morbid cynicism.
Shall his own Mushymush bring him a botanist to-morrow? Speak, for the silence of my brother lies on my heart like the snow on the mountain, and checks the flow of my speech." Still the proud Boy Chief sat silent. Suddenly he said: "Hist!" and rose to his feet. Taking a long rifle from the ground he adjusted its sight.
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