"What white squaw doing?" she asked.
"She is writing a letter," said Nattie, without looking up.
"Who she write letter to?"
"To the great chief, North Wind, her friend."
"What she say to the old chief?"
"She is telling him that the people whom he got to take care of his Tulip, are lazy, saucy, dirty creatures, who smoke and sleep, and burn the kettle, make bad broth, and foul the wigwam by their filthy habits."
The three squaws looked at each other, and whispered again. They were quite overawed by Nattie's determined air, while their stupidity and ignorance prevented them from considering the unlikelihood of Nattie's letter ever reaching the strolling company of Indians, and coming into the chieftain's hands; and soon the girl had the satisfaction of hearing an old fire-iron rasping away at the bottom of the dinner-pot.
Her plan succeeded, and she put by her writ-
