The Shagganappi | Page 3

that
boy in all the five years he had instructed him, as His Excellency, Lord
Mortimer, knew him in that five minutes' chat.
"No," said the Governor, again turning to the principal, "I certainly do
not like that term 'half-breed.' Most of the people on the continent of
America are of mixed nationality--how few are pure English or Scotch
or Irish--or indeed of any particular race? Yet the white people of
mixed nations are never called half-breeds. Why not? It would be quite
reasonable to use the term regarding them." Then, once again
addressing Fire-Flint, he asked, "I suppose all the traders use this term
in speaking of your parents and of you?"
"Of my parents, yes, sir," replied the boy.
"And you?" questioned His Excellency, kindly.
"They call me the 'Shagganappi,'" replied Fire-Flint.
"I am afraid that is beyond me, my boy," smiled His Excellency.
"Won't you tell me what it means?" The boy smiled responsively.
"It is a buckskin, a color; a shagganappi cayuse is a buckskin color.
They say I look that way."
"Ah, I understand," replied His Excellency, as his eyes rested on the
dark cream brown tint of the boy's face. "Well, it is a good name;
buckskin is a thing essential to white people and to Indians alike, from
the Red River to the Rockies. And the cayuse--well, the horse is the
noblest animal known to man. So try to be worthy of the nickname, my
boy. Live to be essential to your people like the buckskin; to be

noble--like the horse. And now good-bye, Shagganappi, and remember
that you are the real Canadian."
Another handclasp and Lord Mortimer was walking away with the
principal at his side, who was saying, "Your Excellency, you have
greatly encouraged that boy; I think he always felt terribly that he was a
half-bree--half-blood. He would have loved to claim either all Cree or
all French ancestry."
"He is a fine lad and I like him," returned Lord Mortimer, rather shortly,
for he felt a little impatient with the principal, who could so easily have
lightened the boy's heart from the very first year he had entered the
school, by fostering within him pride of the two great races that
blended within his veins into that one mighty nation called Canadian.
But that day proved the beginning of a new life for Fire-Flint; Lord
Mortimer had called him Shagganappi in a half playful way, had said
the name meant good and great things. No more did the little half-blood
depise his own unusually tinted skin, no more did he hate that dash of
grey in his brown eyes that bespoke "white blood," no more did he
deplore the lack of proper coloring that would have meant the heritage
of pure Indian blood. He was content to fight it out, through all his life
to come, as "The Shagganappi," and when the time came for him to go
to the great Eastern college in Ontario he went with his mind made up
that no boy living was going to shoulder him into a corner or out-do
him in the race for attainment.
* * * * * * * *
"Hello, fellows, there is an Indian blown in from the North-West.
Cracker-jack of a looking chap," announced "Cop" Billings to his
roommates late one morning, as he burst into the room after his early
mile run to find them with yet ten minutes to spare before the "rising
bell."
"Shut up, and let a fellow sleep," growled "Sandy," from his bed in the
corner.

"Indian?" exclaimed young Locke, sitting bolt upright; "this ain't a
Redskin school; he's got to get put out, or I'm a deader."
"You'll be a deader if you try to put him out," sneered Cop Billings;
"first place he's got an arm like braided whipcord, and he's got a
chin--hanged determined swat-you-in-the-face sort of chin--not a
boiled-fish sort of jaw like yours," and he glared at the unfortunate
Locke with sneering disapproval.
"Where'd you see him?" ventured little chunky Johnny Miller, getting
into his clothes.
"Saw him in the library as I passed. The Head called me in and--"
"Stow it! stow it!" they all yelled; then Locke jeered, "The Head is
never up at six-thirty--we are not rabbits."
"Just where you get left; the Head was up at five-thirty and went to the
station to meet mister Indian."
"Well, I'll be jing-banged," exclaimed Sandy, nearly awake; "what's the
meaning of it all?"
"Meaning's just this, my son," replied Cop, getting out of his limited
running togs into something more respectable, "that if you chumps
guessed all day you'd never strike just how the Indian came to this
school. Who do you suppose wrote to the Head recommending him to
take the Redskin, and kind of insinuating