“Look at my head!” said Harpstenah; “Wenona knew that I was the swiftest runner in the band, and as I stooped to catch the ball she struck me a blow that stunned me, so that I could not run again.”

But the head was so ugly, and the face too, that there was no pity felt for her; those dirty, wrinkled features bore witness to her contempt for the cleansing qualities of water.  Her uncombed hair was hanging in masses about her ears and face, and her countenance expressed cruelty and passion.  But Harpstenah had nothing to avenge; when she was young she was passed by, as there was nothing in her face or disposition that could attract; and now in the winter of life she was so ugly and so desolate, so cross and so forlorn, that no one deemed her worthy even of a slight.  But for all that, Harpstenah could hate, and with all the intensity of her evil heart did she hate Wenona, the beautiful sister of the chief.

Yesterday had been as bright as to-day, and Grey Eagle, the medicine man, had hung on a pole the prizes that were to be given to the party that succeeded in throwing the ball into a space marked off.

The maidens of the village were all dressed in their gayest clothing, with ornaments of beads, bracelets, rings, and ribbons in profusion.  They cared not half so much for the prizes, as they rejoiced at the opportunity of displaying their graceful persons.  The old women were eager to commence the game, for they longed to possess the cloth for their leggins, and the calico for their “okendokendas.” [Footnote “Okendokendas.”  This is the Sioux word for calico.  It is used as the name for a kind of short gown, which is worn by the Sioux women, made generally of calico, sometimes of cloth.]

The women, young and old, were divided into two parties; but as one party threw the ball towards the space marked off, the others threw it back again far over their heads, and then all ran back, each party endeavoring to reach it first, that they might succeed in placing the ball in the position which was to decide the game.

But the ball is not thrown by the hand, each woman has a long stick with a circular frame at the end of it; this they call a bat stick, and, simple as it looks, it requires great skill to manage it.

Wenona was the swiftest runner of one party, and Harpstenah, old and ugly as she was, the best of the other.  How excited they are! the snow-covered hills, majestic and silent, look coldly enough upon their sport; but what care they? the prize will soon be won.

The old medicine man cheered them on.  “Run fast, Wenona! take care that Harpstenah does not win the game.  Ho, Harpstenah! if you and your leggins are old, you may have the cloth yet.”

Now Wenona’s party is getting on bravely, but the ball has been caught and thrown back by the other party.  But at last it is decided.  In the struggle for the ball, Harpstenah received a blow from an old squaw as dismal looking as herself, and Wenona catches the ball and throws it into the appointed place.  The game is ended, and the medicine man comes forward to distribute the prizes.