Horace felt so much pleased with his new companion that he resolved to treat him to a watermelon. So, without saying a word to the hoys, he ran into the house to ask his grandmother.
"What! a whole watermelon, Horace?"
"Yes, grandma, we three; me, and Grasshopper, and Wampum."
Mrs. Parlin could not help smiling to see how suddenly Horace had adopted a new friend.
"You may have a melon, but I think your mother would not like to have you play much with a strange boy."
"He's going to make me a splendid basket; and besides, aren't Indians and negroes as good as white folks? 'Specially tame Indians," said Horace, not very respectfully, as he ran back, shoeknife in hand, to cut the watermelon.
This was the beginning of a hasty friendship between himself and Wampum. For a few days there was nothing so charming to Horace as the wild life of this Indian family. He was made welcome at their tent, and often went in to see them make baskets.
"I trust you," said Mrs. Clifford; "you will not deceive me, Horace. If you ever find that little Wampum says bad words, tells falsehoods, or steals, I shall not be willing for you to play with him. You are very young, and might be greatly injured by a bad playmate."
The tent was rude enough. In one corner were skins laid one over another: these were the beds which were spread out at night for the family. Instead of closets and presses, all the wearing apparel was hung on a long rope, which was stretched from stake to stake, in various directions, like a clothesline.
It was curious to watch the brown fingers moving so easily over the white strips, out of which they wove baskets. It was such pretty work! It brought so much money. Horace thought it was just the business for him, and Wampum promised to teach him. In return for this favor, Horace was to instruct the little Indian in spelling.