The young girl was used to being admired by her own people, and was not at all displeased with Horace for staring at her.
"Me think you nice white child," said she: "you get me sticks, me make you basket, pretty basket for put apples in."
"What kind of sticks do you mean?" said Horace, forgetting that they pretended not to understand English. But it appeared that they knew very well what he meant this time, and the Indian boy offered to go with him to point out the place where the wood was to be found. Grasshopper, who had only hidden behind the trees, now came out and joined the boys.
"Wampum," as he chose to be called, led them back to Mr. Parlin's grounds, to the lower end of the garden, where stood some tall silver poplars, on which the Indians had looked with longing eyes.
"Me shin them trees," said Wampum; "me make you basket."
"Would you let him, Grasshopper?"
"Yes, indeed; your grandfather won't care."
"Perhaps he might; you don't know," said Horace, who, after he had asked advice, was far from feeling obliged to take it. He ran in great haste to the field where his grandfather was hoeing potatoes, thinking, "If I ask, then I shan't get marked in the blue book anyhow."
In this case Horace acted very properly. He had no right to cut the trees, or allow anyone else to cut them, without leave. To his great delight, his grandfather said he did not care if they clipped off a few branches where they would not show much.
When Horace got back and reported the words of his grandfather, Wampum did not even smile, but shot a glance at him as keen as an arrow.