We-hro was cleaning his father’s dugout canoe, after a night of fish spearing.  The soot, the scales, the fire ashes, the mud—­all had to be “swabbed” out at the river’s brink by means of much water and an Indian “slat” broom.  We-hro was up to his little ears in work, when suddenly, above him, on the river road, he heard the coarse voice and thundering whipfalls of a man urging and beating his horse—­a white man, for no Indian used such language, no Indian beat an animal that served him.  We-hro looked up.  Stuck in the mud of the river road was a huge wagon, grain-filled.  The driver, purple of face, was whaling the poor team, and shouting to a cringing little drab-white dog, of fox-terrier lineage, to “Get out of there or I’ll—!”

The horses were dragging and tugging.  The little dog, terrified, was sneaking off with tail between its hind legs.  Then the brutal driver’s whip came down, curling its lash about the dog’s thin body, forcing from the little speechless brute a howl of agony.  Then We-hro spoke—­spoke in all the English he knew.

“Bad! bad!  You die some day—­you!  You hurt that dog.  White man’s God, he no like you.  Indian’s Great Spirit, he not let you shoot in happy hunting grounds.  You die some day—­you bad!”

“Well, if I am bad I’m no pagan Indian Hottentot like you!” yelled the angry driver.  “Take the dog, and begone!”

“Me no Hottentot,” said We-hro, slowly.  “Me Onondaga, all right.  Me take dog;” and from that hour the poor little white cur and the copper-colored little boy were friends for all time.

* * * * * * * *

The Superintendent of Indian Affairs was taking his periodical drive about the Reserve when he chanced to meet old “Ten-Canoes,” We-hro’s father.

The superintendent was a very important person.  He was a great white gentleman, who lived in the city of Brantford, fifteen miles away.  He was a kindly, handsome man, who loved and honored every Indian on the Grand River Reserve.  He had a genial smile, a warm hand-shake, so when he stopped his horse and greeted the old pagan, Ten-Canoes smiled too.

“Ah, Ten-Canoes!” cried the superintendent, “a great man told me he was coming to see your people—­a big man, none less than Great Black-Coat, the bishop of the Anglican Church.  He thinks you are a bad lot, because you are pagans; he wonders why it is that you have never turned Christian.  Some of the missionaries have told him you pagans are no good, so the great man wants to come and see for himself.  He wants to see some of your religious dances—­the ‘Dance of the White Dog,’ if you will have him; he wants to see if it is really bad.”

Ten-Canoes laughed.  “I welcome him,” he said, earnestly, “Welcome the ‘Great Black-Coat.’  I honor him, though I do not think as he does.  He is a good man, a just man; I welcome him, bid him come.”

Thus was his lordship, the Bishop, invited to see the great pagan Onondaga “Festival of the White Dog.”