March 9, 1907.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
369 
squirrels flash across the horse’s path and hide 
behind tufts of grass, and shore larks with 
sweet, soft notes rise and swing away with un¬ 
dulating flight, where dainty antelope slowly 
walk to the tops of the hills, on either side and 
look about with curious eyes, the object draws 
nearer. Sometimes from the crest of a hill it 
seems close at hand, again, descending into a 
little valley, it is lost to view behind a swell of 
the prairie. At length it is close by and its 
nature can be seen. 
“In those ancient days when the vast ice sheet 
was melting, a great mass of stone was floated 
from the distant mountains. Carried on some 
huge berg, parted from the glacier which gave 
it birth, this rock journeyed from the west, and 
at length, falling from its long-time resting 
place, sank to the earth, and when the waters 
disappeared, remained there, a landmark on the 
prairie. 
“Here for ages it has stood, steadfast, im¬ 
movable. The winds of winter buffet it; the 
heats of summer scorch and bake it. Behind it 
the storm piles up a long white drift of snow; 
spring floods collect about it in a little lake, 
soon dried up. Under its lee, perhaps, the 
chilled Indian, returning alone from his unsuc¬ 
cessful war journey, has stopped to seek shelter 
from the bitter blasts which sweep over the 
prairie, bearing death on their icy wings; or in 
summer the panting wolf has stretched himself 
for a moment in its grateful shade. The birds 
have visited it. Eagles and hawks have perched 
here and with watchful eye surveyed the prairie, 
alert to see the slightest movement of grouse 
or hare or ground squirrel. Ihe little birds, too, 
have rested here for a moment; sparrows and 
the titlark with sedate walk and gravely turn¬ 
ing head. A mountain rat has made it his home, 
and in the crevice of the rock has built his 
nest. 
“Though it has traveled far on ice the boulder 
shows little wear. Its knobs and roughness are 
still sharp, but each protuberance and angle is 
polished and covered with a bright brown gloss, 
like the corners of fence posts in a barn yard, 
against which cattle have rubbed their sides. 
“For ages this great erratic has been the 
buffalo’s scratching post. Here in passing, the 
dark herds have turned aside and halted, and 
mighty bull, sleek young cow, and playful yearling 
have sidled up to this massive rock, and with 
grunts of contentment, have pushed their 
rounded bodies against it, and been jostled and 
crowded and struck by the horns of others, 
eager to take their turn. About this stone they 
have walked to and fro and cut up the soil with 
their hoofs and made it fine dust, which the un¬ 
ceasing wind has carried away and scattered far 
over the prairie. So, after the lapse of centuries 
of time and the passing away of many genera¬ 
tions of buffalo, a deep trench has been worn 
about the erratic, and it-stands on a pillar of 
the soil, the top of which is level with the 
prairie. 
“Never again will the boulder witness the 
sights that it has beheld in the past. It stands 
in its old place as firm and steadfast as of yore, 
but the friends that used to visit it have passed 
and are passing away. In these latter days no 
Indian crouches behind it for shelter from the 
storm, nor do buffalo crowd about it. No 
graceful antelope sweep by in rapid flight, 
seldom does a wolf approach it, or an eagle 
from its top look with unblenching eye toward 
the sun. 
“The life of the old prairie has passed away.” 
G. B. G. 
Lone Elk’s Search. 
I —The Lost Wife. 
“Dec. 20, 1879. A clear, windless, exceedingly 
cold day.” My old note book reads under that 
date; “We traded for fifty-two buffalo robes and 
some deer skins. This evening we were invited 
to a feast in Lone Elk’s lodge. Berry pleaded 
fatigue, but I went and had a very interesting 
time. The talk was of the relation of men to the 
supernatural—to the gods. For the sake of 
argument I took the ground that, if there were 
any gods in the heavens above, or on earth, they 
had no communication with men. Lone- Elk 
promptly took issue with me, and the result is 
that I got a story from him.” 
Then follows the story; in places the faded ink 
is quite undecipherable, but my memory sup¬ 
plies the missing sentences: 
“I do not understand the white people,” said 
Lone Elk. “Like us, their knowledge, their 
ability to do things was given them by the gods, 
but with this difference: Their gods are greater 
than ours, have given them power to do many 
things which would be impossible for us to un¬ 
dertake. We cannot make guns, nor powder, nor 
steamboats, nor matches; why, our women cant 
even tan leather as well as they do, thick and 
strong, yet very soft. Our gods compared to 
theirs are very poor, but they gave us all they 
could; the game of the plains and mountains, the 
art of making bows and arrows with which to 
kill, the power to build a fire with which to cook 
flesh, and to keep our bodies warm. We are 
thankful for what they have done for us, and 
we pray to them, make sacrifices, asking to favor 
us with good health, prosperity and long life. 
“But the white men; They give no thanks for 
all that has been given them. Most of them deny 
even that there are any gods. True, there is a 
Black Robe here and there who teaches that 
there are, but the white men do not listen to 
him. Now, hear me : Gods made us, the prairie 
people, and gave us what knowledge we have. 
Gods then must have made them too, for they 
are no different from us except in color, and in 
greater knowledge. Is not that good and true 
reasoning, friend Spotted Robe?’ 
“Many long days and nights have I read sacred 
writings,” I replied, “and much have I thought 
about this. Yet after all I can only say: I do 
not know. I do not know if it were gods, or 
what, that created the world and us. I know 
not whence we came, nor where we go, nor if 
there is any part of us, our shadow, as you call 
jt, which survives the death of our bodies.” 
“Then are you indeed poor!” Lone Elk ex¬ 
claimed. “And very forgiving must be your 
gods, for although you pray not to them, nor 
make sacrifice to them, nor even believe that they 
are, that they live somewhere in the great out¬ 
side, they continue to prosper you in all your 
undertakings. You shake your head. I tell you 
friend, that the gods live. I can prove it. 
Listen: 
“For two winters I had lived in a lodge of 
my own, just my good woman Pit'-ah-ki and I. 
We were happy. No one ever heard us speak¬ 
ing loud, angry words; in our lodge was always 
peace, and plenty and cheerful talk. I hunted 
not only for us, but for my father and his peo¬ 
ple, for he had grown old. But hunting was no 
longer the pleasure to me it had been; the only 
place I cared to be was at home with Pit'-ah-ki. 
It never was any fun to hunt on a cold winter 
day when the frost hung like fog in the air, or 
the wind drove the dry, stinging snow in your 
face, and the hide of your game as you skinned 
it froze stiff in your numb fingers; but I endured 
it, thinking of the warm lodge awaiting me, of 
the bright fire, and the brighter laughing eyes- 
of the little woman as she would hurry out to 
care for the meat and skin, and then hurry to 
set before me hot soup ^nd other food. That 
made all things endurable, to know that some one 
cared for you, and awaited your return. 
“It was the ripe-berry moon of the third sum¬ 
mer that we had lived together. We were about 
out of meat; so very early one morning I saddled 
a borse and rode out on the plains to kill some¬ 
thing. Luck was against me from the start. 
There were buffalo and antelope, plenty of them, 
but to none could I get near enough for a fail- 
shot. Either the wind changed and gave them 
warning, or some sly old he antelope saw me 
and led his band away to safety. It was late in 
the day when I finally killed a cow buffalo, and 
almost dark when I arrived at my lodge with the 
meat. I noticed that there was no fire within, 
and for the first time my woman failed to come 
out and say in her happy voice: ‘My hunter 
has returned.’ So I called out for her: ‘Pit'- 
ah-ki,’ I said, ‘I am very tired, and very hungry; 
come and help your old man unpack.’ 
“There was no reply. I slung the meat and 
hide off, unsaddled and turned my horse loose, 
and went inside. In the center of the fireplace 
was a little mound of cold, white ashes which 
Pit'-ah-ki had heaped up to keep life in the 
bed of coals. I raked them off, threw some fire 
wood on the coals and soon had a blaze. Every¬ 
thing was in order as usual. Just then my 
mother came in and I asked her where my 
woman was. ‘Why,’ she said, surprised, ‘Didn’t 
she go with you? I haven’t seen her this day. 
“Then a great fear seized my heart. I knew 
at once that something was wrong. Indeed, I 
had felt ill at ease all day, as if some misfor¬ 
tune was about to befall me. ‘I will go and see 
if she is with her parents, or her sister,’ said 
my mother. • ‘and if she isn’t, I will have the 
camp crier call out about her.’ 
“ ‘Go, if you will,’ I s*ud to her, ‘but I know 
that it will be useless, for Pit'-ah-ki would be 
right here, right now, were it in her power. 
Something terrible has happened to her.’ 
“I put more wood on the fire and lay down. 
In a little while I heard the camp crier repeating 
over and over. ‘Pit'-ah-ki, Lone Elk s woman 
has been missing since sunrise. Who has seen 
her? Who can give news concerning her?’ 
“Mv mother returned and began to cook food 
for me. ‘Put the stuff away,’ I told her. ‘I can¬ 
not eat now.’ 
“Then friends began to come in and I had to 
sit up and fill pipes for them, and listen to their 
talk and their views regarding my missing one. 
My mother, after some search, found that a 
woven grass sack, made by beyond-the-moun- 
tains people, was missing. It was the one Pit'- 
ah-ki always used when she went to gather 
berries. She had gone berrying then, but why 
alone? And what had happened to her? Some 
said that a bear had probably killed her; others 
