painting themselves and their horses, fixing up their 
things and getting ready to start. During the night they 
set out for the camp of the enemy. 
From the camp of the outlaws, off to the west, every- 
thing that was going on in the main village could be seen, 
and very likely one or more of the men may have been 
in the camp, for they often visited it. 
The Gheyennes and Arapahoes left their camp as it was, 
the lodges standing, and all their possessions in them. 
The women and children, carrying light camping outfits, 
followed the men, who marched ahead. During the night 
they stopped four times for a little while to rest. 
At peep of day they formed in a long line. White 
Thunder, the medicine arrow keeper, opened the bundle, 
and, with the usual ceremony, pointed the medicine 
arrows in the direction where he supposed the enemy's 
camp to be. Then he wrapped the arrows up again and 
held the points toward the sky, and told the Cheyennes to 
charge. They made the charge, but when they reached 
the river they found no camp there; but far up the river 
on the other side, people could be seen on the hills, and 
when the Cheyennes had ridden down into the bottom 
they could see beyond a point of the bluff the Kiowa 
village. 
Meantime the outlaws, a little way to the westward, 
had gone forward somewhat faster than the main body, 
and approached the stream just opposite the Kiowa camp. 
Just after the dusk of the morning. Porcupine Bear-^ 
afterward called the Lame Shawnee — saw people ride over 
a hill before him— men and women going out to hunt buf- 
falo. He was a little ahead of his party, when, looking 
from a crest of a hill, he saw them coming. He called to 
his men to keep out of sight, saying, "Keep down, keep 
down out of sight; I will deceive them." His men re- 
mained hidden, and he threw down his lance and began 
to ride backward and forward, making the sign that buf- 
falo had been seen. When the Kiowas saw him, they 
thought it was someone from their camp who had gone 
out before them and had found buffalo. They began to 
move toward him faster, still riding their common horses 
and leading the running horses. Porcupine Bear did not 
turn his face toward the enemy, but kept gazing off over 
the prairie, as if watching distant buffalo. He kept 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
doing thi.s until the Kiowas were so close: that he could 
hear them talking. 
Down in the ravine behind him were the other 
Cheyennes, lying down on their horses, some fixing their 
shields or putting arrows on strings, and some already 
prepared for the charge. Presently the Lame Shawnee 
called to them, "Be ready, now; they are getting close. 
We must not give them time to prepare for us." 
At last, when he could hear them talking plainly, he 
reached down to the ground, caught up his lance, and 
turning his horse, charged the Kiowas, and all the other 
Cheyennes followed him. The Kiowas were so close that 
the Cheyennes were on them before they had time to 
think. They had no time to change horses, no time even 
to get their bows out of their cases. The Cheyennes 
lanced them and shot them down one after another until 
they had killed them all. They captured all their horses. 
The last Kiowa of all, with his wife, was so far behind 
that he had time to jump on his rui-ining horse, and 
turned to flee, but his wife called to him, "Do not leave 
me," and he turned and rode back to help her, and was 
killed. Porcupine Bear — the Lame Shawnee — killed 
twelve. Crooked Neck killed eight. There were seven 
of these Cheyennes, and thirty Kiowas, men and women. 
Thus these Cheyennes gained the glory of counting the 
first coups in this great fight, but because they were out- 
laws the honor of it was not allowed to them, but to- an- 
other man who counted the first coup in the general bat- 
tle an hour or two later. Still, everyone knew what Por- 
cupine Bear's young men had done. 
When the main body of the Cheyennes found that there 
was no camp opposite to them, but saw the camp and the 
scattered people up the stream, they separated. A part 
charged across the river, and a part up the bottom. Those 
who crossed killed a number of men and women who 
were out gathering roots. Those who went up the bot- 
tom drove off a great number of horses, Gentle Horse 
alone getting between eighty and a hundred head. 
The first man tO' count coup in the main body was a 
very young man, a Ponca captive — Walking Coyote- — who 
had been adopted and brought up by Yellow Wolf, who 
had put him on a good horse for this fight. Walking 
Coyote was a Bowstring soldier. 
Previous to going into this fight the Cheyennes_ had 
agreed that they would take no prisoners. , A man 'who 
wished to take captive a girl who had a handsome elk- 
teeth dress, seized her and was about to carry her off, 
when another Cheyenne ran up and shot her and took her _ 
dress. . , - ' 
After the attack had been made on the Kiowa and , 
Comanche camp, a Comanche chief, who early in the^ 
morning had gone out to run buffalo which v/ere close by, 
heard the noise of the fighting, and came back to the, 
village as fast as he could. He had ridden so hard that 
his horse was exhausted, but his people had his war pony, 
ready, and he mounted it and charged toward the enemy, 
and other Comanches followed him. , 
The Kiov/as and Comanches were fighting behind their 
lodges, and behind breastworks that they had, thrown up, 
but when the Comanches charged, Crooked Neck called 
out to his men, "Come, let us run, and draw them away 
from the village." The Cheyennes all turned and rail 
and the enemy followed, riding hard, this Comanche chief 
being in the lead. ;.\ 
When they had gone far enough. Crooked Neck called 
out to his people. "This is far enough— now turn." The 
Cheyennes turned and charged, and the Comanches and 
Kiowas also turned and ran. Sun-Maker, who was on a 
fast horse, almost overtook them, and shot two arrows 
into the back of the Comanche chief. 
Sun-Maker watched the chief, and, as he drew close to 
the village, saw him begin to sway, and then saw him 
throw out his arm to catch his horse's neck, and saw him ■ 
fall to the ground. After the peace was made, the 
Comanches learned who it was that had killed this chief.: . 
For most of the day after this there was fighting about 
the village, perhaps until four or five o'clock. Then they 
stopped fighting. Six Cheyennes were killed on the north' 
side of the river, and six on the south side. Of these, twp 
were important men — White Thunder, keeper of tKe 
medicine arrows, who was about seventy years old, and 
Big Breast. They do not know how many of the Kiowas 
and Comanches were killed, but it was a large number, 
women and children and men. 
This was in the month of May, 1838. 
George Bird Grinneix. 
Some Bird Names. 
Plover is only another way of saying "rainbird," 
copied from the French pliwier; and our killdeer or 
"killdee," is one of this noisy tribe. "Godwif' means 
good wight, or good creature, and, like the snipe, the 
curlew, the willet and others, takes its name from its 
cry. I am aware that "snipe" is usually traced back to 
an old Scandinavian word meaning snapper; but there is 
little or nothing in the habits of the bird to suggest such 
a term, while its characteristic spring note, so often 
written "scaip" by Frank Forester et al, might quite as 
truly be written "sn-i-i-pe." "Marlin,'' one of the names 
of the godwits, is merely "little sea bird." 
The rail also gets its name from its cry, through an old 
Dutch root meaning to rattle. The common name of one 
of our southern species is "clapper" rail; "corn-crake" 
affords another instance of the same kind, and probably 
theTndian word sora has a like history. Another sort 
of- marsh hen is the gallinule (Latin for pullet), which 
is also called "coot," though that word in this country 
is more particularly applied to some ducks, though 
properly belonging to the rail-like Fulica; "coot" means 
"bbbtailed," and is the Welsh cwtiar from cwta, short, 
bob-tailed, and iar^ a hen; so that coot is cognate with 
cut. Along the Florida reefs lives a curious bird known 
as the "courlan" (corruption of French for curlew), 
"crying-bird," and "limpkin," the last in allusion to its 
awkward gait; it is the Aramus giganteus. 
"Crane," the next name, in order, comes from an 
ancient Aryan root which produces gepauos in Greek, 
grus in Latin and crati or something like it in the old 
Teutonic tongues— all meaning long-legged. Its Welsh 
name is garan — a word of the same pedigree related to 
garter. "Flamingo" and "filimingo" (Florida) are cor- 
ruptions of the Spanish Aamenco' — flame-colored. The 
Latin cygnus and our "swan" grew from the same root, 
and we still say cygnet for the young. It was "the great 
white bird" of several American Indian languages. 
Ernest Ingersoll. 
[to be continued.] 
Song of the Wilderness Bird. 
"Eet rain t' night," said Toma. 
Toma knew. Hadn't he been in and out of the woods 
for "mo'n thirt' year?" Anyway it was ten o'clock, and 
a late hour for the wilderness. 
This was his parting word for the night, and I was soon 
left alone to find the faces in the dying embers of the 
camp-fire, and to listen to the voice of the rapid, now 
near, now distant, as the wind rose and fell. There was 
music in the sound— a mighty hymn, deep and swelling- 
nature's praise to nature's God — an evening song — a wil- 
derness chorus, soothing us to lie at rest on nature's 
I must have dozed. The last stick of the fire burned 
asunder, and, falling, roused me. A little shower of 
sparks lighted up the darkness for an instant, and then 
died as quickly. The woods and the hills came closer. 
The stars receded and vanished. Darkness was all about. 
A thousand miles from home — in the midst of the wilder- 
ness, no white man near — and yet I turned in without a 
sense of fear or a wish to be elsewhere. The throb of the 
fall came through the earth to my ear as I lay between the 
|jlankets, listening for hours to the sound of the river 
in its headlong plunge. A gentle rain began to fall, and 
I was lulled to sleep by the music of the waters. 
A shower of rain drops is shaken from the tree over 
the tent, and half awake I open my eyes to the white mist 
over stream and woods beyond, visible between the flaps 
of my canvas door. Gradually in the gray dawn I dis- 
tinguish the swift, dark water, still swirling along not a 
rod from my spruce bough bed. The blankets are so 
warm and comfortable, I am in no hurry to leave them. 
There is no need to get up — no train to catch, no will to 
follow but my own. And sO' the song of the rapid closes 
my eyes again and again, and I doze with a perfect 
absence of care. 
Another shower of drops and I am wide awake. Was 
it the sound on the canvas that roused me? Nine liquid 
notes, repeated, as if the singer had forgotten the rest of 
his song. I lay entranced, listening to^ these bird notes so 
sweet and clear. And yet there was melancholy in the 
strain. Pitched in a minor key, it had a touch of sadness 
and of longing, of question without answer — the heart-cry 
of the patient sufferer asking for sympathy, appearing in 
its simple sweetness and touching in its pathos. Did it 
tell of the coming cold? Was it calling for its mate? 
What forest tragedy did it voice? Was there no answer 
to the questioning? It was the throbbing protest of all 
labor and of all suffering. I had heard it in the sounds of 
the great city. Here it was voiced by the sweet singer of 
the wilderness. At times the strain was whistled a stac- 
cato, then again rolling and swelling, swelling on the last 
note in final entreaty, as if to lengthen the song. 
The morning breeze came hurrying up the river; the 
mist was brushed away before it, and through the tree- 
tops the rising sun shot a handful of golden arrows on 
tent and camp. My warbler took new life in the warmth 
of the morning rays, and trilled his ditty in a way that 
brought me from my blankets to see what feathered artist 
it was that had so worked up his theme from nine simple 
notes. Here they are ; run them over — they will stay 
with you : 
r 
r 
From my tent door I watched him swinging on a nea;r- 
by birch, and there I stood for a full quarter hour, drink- 
ing in the sunlight, the morning air and the bird notes. 
Could I come nearer? But I was doomed to disappoint- 
ment. Someone was up before me, and the sound of an 
ax in the hands of Toma, who was getting wood for our 
morning fire sent my songster to a distant tree-top, where 
I could just judge it a bird by its position on the topmost 
bough of a tall poplar, where it swayed to and fro in the 
breeze. It was no sooner lighted, however, than the same 
song came back over the water again and again. There 
were no husky notes from that throat; every one was 
round and clear as a bell, in all its liquid purity. 
Toma answered my inquiry as follows: "They call 
heem hard time bird. Don' know why, unless 'cause eet 
hav' such hard time 'n Canady."_ 
Later I had a closer view of this songster, and I found 
him a modest little fellow, no larger than a sparrow, and 
not much different in coloring, probably a little slimmer 
and lighter, and with white under wings. I heard the 
song often afterward, and always listened attentively 
when the bird was moved to repeat his few notes. i-Hp 
never varied the programme, nor changed the key, ^toir ; 
uttered other sound except when disturbed, at wMchA 
times he ended abruptly with a little impatient chirp as he 
flew away. 
I have never found a name for my morning songster; 
but some day I hope to go again to the stream and the 
forest, and know him more intimately. 
W. S. Ferguson. 
Hardships of the Winter. 
Milford Conn., March i. — Editor Forest and Stream :^ 
This winter has been phenomenal for snow and cold, and , 
to show what it has meant to some of the wild creatures 
and how it has affected them, I give you some of my ' 
observations. 
We have been feeding corn to six gray squirrels at the 
garden house for three weeks, and three hawks which 
have discovered this gather there daily and feed, or try : 
to feed, on the gray squirrels. Eight gray squirrels infest, 
the corncrib, and one gray squirrel lives in the Mansion 
House cellar. 
Four quail come daily to feed in the cowyard, while six 
bluejays live in and about the barn. My man Carl has 
caught forty-eight rats, starving creatures which ordi- 
narily live in the stone walls, but which had to get food 
and ate their way into the chicken house through four 
inches of concrete. 
Two queer finches, which must have been lesser red- 
polls, have fed daily on the piazza. Not many days ago- 
a red fox was seen at three o'clock in the afternoon of a 
bright day, apparently following the trail of a gray squir- 
rel in the snow between the Mansion and the ponds. It 
was a bright day. I telephoned to the farm and had the 
foxhound loosened and put on the trail. The fox was seen 
again when he crossed the road, but too far off to shoot 
at. 
This is what snow and cold weather have done in 
Connecticut. M. G. 
Two farmers were making purchases in a store. One 
had a team of mules hitched outside. He was negotiat- 
ing for a pair of gloves covered with bear skin. The 
other farmer said to him that he would pay for the 
gloves if the first would put them on and go out and 
unbridle and bridle one of the mules. The man at- 
tempted to win the gloves. At the first sight of the 
gloves both mules stood on their hind legs and started 
a boxing match with their owner. It took four men 
to hold them until the gloves were out of sight. A 
mule has yet to be found that will stand for anything 
with fur, especially bear fur on it. The owner of the 
mules did not get the gloves. — Lawrence, Kans., 
Gazette. 
The Chinese say that the marks on the forehead of 
the tiger form the character Hwang, or King, and that 
the tiger is in consequence to be regarded as the king 
of beasts. 
Little Willie— Say, pa, what is meant by "courtingf 
danger'? 
Pa — Why, er — any kind of courting, my son.-— Chicagqi 
Daily. 
