||pretty-little-town " cry of the yellow-breasted meadowlarks. He watched as brown hawks and majestic eagles circled lazily, soaring on wind currents; caught their excitement as they dove swiftly toward the earth, catching their smaller prey in powerful talons. He chased groundhogs and chipmunks and sat motionless when the graceful deer surprised him. But most of all he enjoyed riding his pony swiftly across the valley when he had some free time. Though Will had friends among the other boys herding family cattle in the big field, he made new friends, too: the Indian boys who tended their livestock in the valley. The Wahpitts, in particular, made him feel almost like a member of their family. On days when the cattle grazed quietly, the young Indians and Will rode their ponies between the cedars, across the meadows, through the streams. They fairly seemed to fly like the birds they eagerly watched. And Will quickly learned enough of the Indian's dialect to be able to communicate with them. Will was inquisitive and wanted to know more about the world around him. Days in school weren't his favorite-though he was proud of knowing how to read and write. He didn't mind going to school during the winter-just across the road from his house-but sometimes, when his mother needed him at home and he had a few minutes of spare time, he sat on the roof of their house, caught the sunbeams in a bit of a mirror and flashed them in the eyes of the teacher in the schoolroom. Will wasn't certain the teacher had figured out just what it was that occasionally nearly blinded him with such brilliant beams, but sometimes he had a suspicion the teacher caught on. Perhaps. One day was especially good, Will thought. The cattle had been easy to handle, the sun had shone without too much heat, the birds had kept up a constant serenade and Will spent part of the day with the Wahpitts. That is, the day had been especially good . . . until they invited him to share their meal. That's when it had changed! Will had been glad to share someone's meal; he was tired of eating the same old things, so he had eagerly accepted young Wahpitts' invita-tion--at first. He watched the squaw kneading the black-meal cakes, patting and shaping them, slapping them against her bare thigh and throwing them high in the air until they hit the top of the teepee. She was adept and dexterous as she formed the patties. Then came Will's mistake: hs asked what was in the black-meal cakes. Crushed crickets!! His appetite was gone.