Sometimes, when the stock of pemmican or robes is small, the braves object to see their “pile” go for a little parcel of tea or sugar.  The steelyard and weighing-balance are their especial objects of dislike.  “What for you put on one side tea or sugar, and on the other a little bit of iron?” they say; “we don’t know what that medicine is-but, look here, put on one side of that thing that swings a bag of pemmican, and put on the other side blankets and tea and sugar, and then, when the two sides stop swinging, you take the bag of pemmican and we will take the blankets and the tea:  that would be fair, for one side will be as big as the other.”  This is a very bright idea on the part of the Four Bears, and elicits universal satisfaction all round.  Four Bears and his brethren are, however, a little bit put out of conceit when the trader observes, “Well, let be as you say.  We will make the balance swing level between the bag of pemmican and the blankets, but we will carry out the idea still further.  You will put your marten skins and your otter and fisher skins on one side, I will put against them on the other my blankets, and my gun and ball and powder; then, when both sides are level, you will take the ball and powder and the blankets, and I will take the marten and the rest of the fine furs.”  This proposition throws a new light upon the question of weighing-machines and steelyards, and, after some little deliberation, it is resolved to abide by the old plan of letting the white trader decide the weight himself in his own way, for it is clear that the steelyard is a great medicine which no brave can understand, and which can only be manipulated by a white medicine-man.

This white medicine-man was in olden times a terrible demon in the eyes’ of the Indian.  His power reached far into the plains; he possessed three medicines of the very highest order:  his heart could sing, demons sprung from the light of his candle, and he had a little box stronger than the strongest Indian.  When a large band of the Blackfeet would assemble at Edmonton, years ago, the Chief Factor would-win-dup his musical box, get his magic lantern ready, and take out his galvanic battery.  Imparting with the last-named article a terrific shock to the frame of the Indian chief, he would warn him that far out in the plains he could at will inflict the same medicine upon him if he ever behaved badly.  “Look,” he would say, “now my heart beats for you,” then the spring of the little musical box concealed under his coat would be touched, and lo! the heart of the white trader would sing with the strength of his love for the Blackfeet.  “To-morrow I start to cross the mountains against the Nez Perces,” a chief would say, “what says my white brother, don’t he dream that my arm will be strong in battle, and that the scalps and horses of the Nez Perces will be ours?” “I have dreamt that you are to draw one of these two little sticks which I hold in my hand.  If you draw the right one,