THE CEREMONIAL DRUM 191

father, the shaman, searched everywhere for Yulan.

“He is afraid to come home,” the shaman sug-
gested at last. “He is afraid I shall punish him for
ruining my hat yesterday.”

“Yulan must be found,” declared the chief; “and
you shall not punish him. He was very brave to march
boldly up the street when he knew the Niska slaves
were armed and the warriors were lying in wait in
the forest! Give him the ceremonial drum which he
covets. Give him the shaman robes and apron and
hat which he loves to wear. When he is older, he shall
become a shaman, and no shaman among us shall be
accorded more honor than he.”

Shortly afterward they discovered Yulan hidden
in a thicket behind the guest house. Before him was
a big iron kettle which he had dragged from the
building—a very deep iron kettle which had been
half full of wild crab-apples stewed in molasses.
Now it was nearly empty. Slik, the puppy, who lay
at his master’s feet, had feasted until he was no
longer interested in his master’s offerings, but Yulan
himself still dipped a long-handled wooden spoon
into the sticky mass from time to time and licked it
slowly.

Upon his face, besmeared with molasses from ear
to ear, was such a smile of utter bliss that neither
the chief nor the shaman had the heart to disturb
him. Not until he was quite satisfied did they make

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