Sometimes my mother would say, “My son is bad, pierce his flesh!” and my uncle would take an arrow, pinch the flesh of my arm, and make as if he would pierce it. I would cry, “I will be good, I will be good!” and he would let me go without doing more than giving me a good fright.
A very naughty boy was sometimes punished by rolling him in a snow bank, or ducking him in water.
One winter evening I was vexed at my mother and would not go to bed. “Come,” she said, trying to draw me away, but I fought, kicking at her and screaming. Quite out of patience, my mother turned to Flies Low. “Apatip—duck him!” she cried. A pail of water stood by the fireplace. Flies Low caught me up, my legs over his shoulder, and plunged me, head downward, into the pail. I broke from him screaming, but he caught me and plunged me in again. The water strangled me, I thought I was going to die!
“Stop crying,” said my uncle.
My mother took me by the arm. “Stop crying,” she said. “If you are bad, I will call your uncle again!” And she put me to bed.
Sled of Buffalo Ribs.
We Indian children knew nothing of marbles or skates. I had a swing, made of my mother’s packing strap, and a top, cut from the tip of a buffalo’s horn. Many boys owned sleds, made of five or six buffalo ribs bound side by side. With these they coasted down the steep Missouri bank, but that was play for older boys.
Few wagons were owned by the tribe at this time. When journeying, we packed our baggage on the backs of ponies, or on travois dragged by dogs.