MOVING THE DOLLS' CAMP
White Cloud ran out of her wigwam home. Her work was done, and a happy time of play was before her.
She hurried through the tall grass toward a near-by lodge, calling: "Flying Squirrel, come and play with me."
The skin curtain hanging over the lodge door was raised and a little head appeared. But there was no squirrel to be seen, only an Indian girl with the blackest of hair and eyes.
Her playmates had given her the name of Flying Squirrel because she was always climbing trees and jumping from one branch to another.
"Bring your dolls," said White Cloud. "We'll build lodges for them. Come as soon as you can, for my baby is trying to get away."
"Your baby! What do you mean? Where did you find a baby?"
White Cloud was rejoicing in a family of young puppies—new playthings for her. She had bound one of them to a board, and had tied the board cradle to her back, as a squaw carries a papoose.
"Be still! Be still, bad baby!" she cried to her squirming pet. But the little dog would not be still. He howled louder and louder, and struggled so hard that he broke away from his cords and bands.