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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