WHO WINS THE RADIO?
For many days Billy worked diligently at his composition. He took care
to do his writing away from home, as he cherished the thought of
surprising Mother and Father.
Then, too, he had conceived another idea. It happened to pop into his
head one evening when he was returning from Bah's home. It was such a
good idea that he wondered he hadn't thought of it before.
And so, as I have said, he worked, and no one but Peanuts knew what he
was doing, and Peanuts was sworn to secrecy. As he would prepare to
leave his secluded spot out on the prairie where he did his writing,
Billy would say to Peanuts: "Now, we'll never say a word! We'll keep
this to ourselves, won't we?"
[Illustration: FOR DAYS BILLY WORKED ON HIS STORY]
And Peanuts was most agreeable. Why not? The days had been pleasure
since his master had decided to allow him to graze all day long instead
of asking him to gallop over the plains. Yes, indeed, the plan suited
Peanuts down to the ground (where, by the way, he constantly kept his
nose.)
Billy's nose was buried in his writing and he chewed the pencil as
steadily as Peanuts chewed the dry nourishment he found. But at last
the task was over, the manuscript sent in to the magazine, and Billy
was again paying his respects to the Fighting Bull family. Peanuts was
the only regretful one when the story was finished, and sent away.
Billy sighed a sigh of relief and the first day that he put in an
appearance at the hogan, Bah squealed with joy to see him returning.
Many happy days ensued, in which the Indian girl showed the boy new
games and ways of playing which she, little lonely one, had devised by
herself.
Each evening Billy would come home with the same question on his lips:
"Has my magazine arrived?"
But New York is a long way from Arizona, and it was many weeks before
the magazine, in which the winning story was to appear, at last came.
It was one evening after Billy had had a particularly exciting day
chasing buffaloes (in the form of tame sheep) with Bah, that he came
home to find his magazine awaiting him. It had not been opened and was
lying on his little desk. It was addressed to him--and inside it
was--maybe--his story! He longed to find out, but he couldn't move his
fingers to open the wrapper.
He suddenly grew hot all over and realized then how he longed to see
that story inside those covers. If he had been an Indian instead of a
white boy he would have made a prayer stick and prayed via the eagle
feather to the Great Father.
The next morning Father and Mother found Billy curled up in a big chair
in the living room poring over his magazine. They could not see his
face.
Father took up his paper, but before starting to read he remarked:
"Who's the lucky winner of the radio, Son?"
Billy did not answer, but arose from his chair and brought the magazine
over, to Father. Father glanced at the page with a wicked smile, and
remarked: "Needless to say, it wasn't a chap named William!"
Billy, his head drooping, left the room, and Mother felt sorry for him.
So did Father. In fact I think Father was sorry for what he had said,
as he got up and called him back.
It was then that Billy told Father what he had done--all about it from
the first day that the idea had occurred to him until the moment when
he had, with trembling fingers, opened the magazine and found....
"You're a good boy, Bill," said Father, "and I've been wronging you."
Mother was about to make a fuss over him, so, allowing her only time
enough for one kiss, he grabbed his hat. Then with the parting words,
"I'm going to see the Fighting Bulls--goodbye," he made a dash for the
door.
"Some day maybe you'll take me, Bill," called Father after him, "I'd
like to meet the Fighting Bulls, and their calf. She must be a smart
little kid!"
Then the parents looked at each other and Mother's eyes were just a
little bit dewy. She smiled and shook her finger at Father: "I know
another Fighting Bull," she said.
"Yes, dear," said Father humbly, "and he has a splendid and plucky
little calf!"
At the hogan there was much excitement. As Peanuts came galloping down
the village "street" his rider saw a most unusual sight.
Chief Fighting Bull, his wife and small daughter were all grouped about
an object which seemed to be attracting them. So much did it attract
them that they were talking in Navajo faster and louder than Billy had
ever heard them talk.
The boy jumped down from his pony and walked up to the family circle.
He saw that the object of their interest was a large wooden express
box, and written across it were the words:
"Bah, The Little Indian Weaver,
Daughter of Chief Fighting Bull,
Navajo Reservation, near Tuba, Arizona."
[Illustration: "IS IT FOR ME?"]
"This came today," said the Chief to Billy, and Bah held up an envelope
which she clutched in her hand.
"And see--letter to Bah."
Billy asked: "Why don't you open it?"
"Yes, will do," replied the girl. At the same time as Bah and Billy
were opening the letter, the Chief, aided by his wife, was opening the
large box.
"You read letter for me, please," smiled Bah.
Billy took the letter--but just then the box was opened and inside it
the astonished family beheld a radio!
"What this?" asked Fighting Bull.
Said Billy wisely: "It's a radio--you know, you can listen to music
and everything. It's lots of fun. Come on, we'll fix it up!"
[Illustration: "WITHOUT YOU I COULDN'T HAVE WRITTEN IT."]
With Billy's instructions the Chief set up the radio. It was a portable
set and as soon as they attached the aerial and Billy turned the dials
the sound of fine music began to float on the air.
"Alive!" shrieked Bah, turned on her heels, and fled!
Billy, still holding the unopened letter, ran after her. He found her
hidden in a thicket and brought her back to her parents, who stood
transfixed before the radio, which was still sending forth music.
"Don't be afraid, Bah," said Billy. "It's not this box making the
noise. The music comes through the air from a big city!"
The Chief and his wife were almost as impressed as Bah, but they did
not show their feelings. They could only stand and stare while Billy,
holding on to Bah with one hand for fear that she would run away
again, read the following letter:
"Dear Little Bah:
Your story 'The Little Indian Weaver,' written by yourself
about yourself, has won the Composition Contest. The prize,
a radio, we are sending you today. It was a great pleasure
to receive such a charming little story from a real Indian
girl. The white children who read it will, we are sure,
enjoy it, and learn a great deal from you. Thank you, and we
hope you will like the radio!
The Children's Magazine."
"But--but," said Bah, "I not write story!"
Billy put his arm around her shoulders and smiling down at her said:
"No, but I sent it in your name because if it hadn't been for you and
your mother and father I never could have written it!"
[Illustration: "I PUT INDIAN FLAG ON MY SINGING BOX."]
As the strains of music floated through the air, attracting the sheep
from the prairie, two dreamy children sat beside the radio, which was
perched on the top of a packing box, and listened eagerly.
[Illustration: THE WHITE CHILD LOVES HIS INDIAN FRIENDS]
Bah had outgrown her fear of the "Singing Box" as she called the radio,
and each day she and Billy would enjoy songs and music from the
city--strange sounds, some of them, to the little Indian girl.
But to Billy it had become a greater joy than he ever had anticipated
to watch her rapture with the new toy.
One day he found a stick with feathers stuck on top of the radio, and
he asked her what it meant.
"Bah put flag on Singing Box. That is Indian flag!"
Billy never ceased learning about the Indians, their customs and their
interesting ways.
Perhaps the Fighting Bulls also were learning. They learned what many
Indians do not know--that the white child loves his brother--the first
American.
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes
Page 85: Possibly missing "second" before "time" in the sentence:
"That's the time you fooled me!" said he.
Page 90: Retained "Goodby" but possibly a typo for "goodbye."
(he only called out, "Goodby, Father.")
Page 123: Retained "poring" but possibly a typo for "pouring."
(Billy curled up in a big chair in the living room poring over his)
End of Project Gutenberg's The Little Indian Weaver, by Madeline Brandeis