“No,” said the Governor, again turning to the principal, “I certainly do not like that term ‘half-breed.’  Most of the people on the continent of America are of mixed nationality—­how few are pure English or Scotch or Irish—­or indeed of any particular race?  Yet the white people of mixed nations are never called half-breeds.  Why not?  It would be quite reasonable to use the term regarding them.”  Then, once again addressing Fire-Flint, he asked, “I suppose all the traders use this term in speaking of your parents and of you?”

“Of my parents, yes, sir,” replied the boy.

“And you?” questioned His Excellency, kindly.

“They call me the ‘Shagganappi,’” replied Fire-Flint.

“I am afraid that is beyond me, my boy,” smiled His Excellency.  “Won’t you tell me what it means?” The boy smiled responsively.

“It is a buckskin, a color; a shagganappi cayuse is a buckskin color.  They say I look that way.”

“Ah, I understand,” replied His Excellency, as his eyes rested on the dark cream brown tint of the boy’s face.  “Well, it is a good name; buckskin is a thing essential to white people and to Indians alike, from the Red River to the Rockies.  And the cayuse—­well, the horse is the noblest animal known to man.  So try to be worthy of the nickname, my boy.  Live to be essential to your people like the buckskin; to be noble—­like the horse.  And now good-bye, Shagganappi, and remember that you are the real Canadian.”

Another handclasp and Lord Mortimer was walking away with the principal at his side, who was saying, “Your Excellency, you have greatly encouraged that boy; I think he always felt terribly that he was a half-bree—­half-blood.  He would have loved to claim either all Cree or all French ancestry.”

“He is a fine lad and I like him,” returned Lord Mortimer, rather shortly, for he felt a little impatient with the principal, who could so easily have lightened the boy’s heart from the very first year he had entered the school, by fostering within him pride of the two great races that blended within his veins into that one mighty nation called Canadian.

But that day proved the beginning of a new life for Fire-Flint; Lord Mortimer had called him Shagganappi in a half playful way, had said the name meant good and great things.  No more did the little half-blood despise his own unusually tinted skin, no more did he hate that dash of grey in his brown eyes that bespoke “white blood,” no more did he deplore the lack of proper coloring that would have meant the heritage of pure Indian blood.  He was content to fight it out, through all his life to come, as “The Shagganappi,” and when the time came for him to go to the great Eastern college in Ontario he went with his mind made up that no boy living was going to shoulder him into a corner or out-do him in the race for attainment.

* * * * * * * *

“Hello, fellows, there is an Indian blown in from the North-West.  Cracker-jack of a looking chap,” announced “Cop” Billings to his roommates late one morning, as he burst into the room after his early mile run to find them with yet ten minutes to spare before the “rising bell.”