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treaty shirts
 gerald vizenor

TREATY SHIRTS
October 2034 — A Familiar Treatise
on the White Earth Nation

Wesleyan University Press | Middletown, Connecticut

 Wesleyan University Press
Middletown CT 06459
www.wesleyan.edu/wespress
© 2016 Gerald Vizenor
All rights reserved
Manufactured in the United States of America
Typeset in Sina

Hardcover ISBN: 978-0-8195-7628-6

Ebook ISBN: 978-0-8195-7629-3
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication
Data available on request

5 4 3 2 1

Cover illustration: Rick Bartow, Voices III (2015). Acrylic on canvas. Artwork
courtesy of the Artist and Froelick Gallery, Portland, OR.
IN MEMORY OF MY GRANDMOTHER
Alice Beaulieu Vizenor

AND MY FATHER
Clement William Vizenor
 The ideal of a mode of government that mirrors the
values of a single community is dangerous because it
implies that plural identities are pathological and
univocal identities normal.
John Gray, Two Faces of Liberalism

In America today our great divide in many ways

comes down to a feud between the repressions of
correctness, on the one hand, and freedom, on the other.
Were correctness to prevail, its know-nothingism and
repressiveness would surely lead to cultural decline. Even
if freedom offers no guarantee of something better, it is
at least freedom, and the possibilities are infinite.
Shelby Steele, Shame

A man of imagination has an advantage over other people,

in that an actual experience is almost always less intense
than his expectations of it. An actual misfortune is almost
always less painful to him than his fear of it, just as, of
course, his actual experience of joys is almost always less
stirring than his hopes and anticipations of them.
Lion Feuchtwanger, The Devil in France

Finally there is a justice, though a very different kind

of justice, in restoring freedom, which is the only
imperishable value of history. Men are never really willing
to die except for the sake of freedom: therefore they
do not believe in dying completely.
Albert Camus, The Rebel
 CONTENTS

1 Archive 1

2 Moby Dick 36

3 Savage Love 49

4 Gichi Noodin 61

5 Hole in the Storm 72

6 Waasese 84

7 Justice Molly Crèche 99

8 Archive 114
treaty shirts
 1

ARCHIVE

The Great Peace of Montréal became the mainstay of our visionary

and catchy petition that autumn for the right of continental liberty.
Seven native exiles resumed that singular treaty of peace in tribute
to thousands of our native ancestors, the ancient voyageurs and
coureurs de bois of the fur trade, and citizens of New France.
That theatrical peace treaty was plainly signed forever and has
continued in native stories as a trustworthy entente after more than
three centuries of diplomacy, territorial wars, colonial turnabouts,
separatism and reservations, and the many obscure resolutions of
sovereign nations.
Seven native exiles teased the former colonial regimes to restore
that great peace of the continent and recognize a singular seat of
egalitarian governance at Fort Saint Charles on Manidooke Minis,
the island of native liberty, mercy, and spiritual discretion near the
international border of Lake of the Woods.
Archive is my nickname, one of the seven exiles.
The Constitution of the White Earth Nation, once our chronicle
of continental liberty, was created with moral imagination and a
distinct sense of cultural sovereignty, the perseverance of native
delegates, and a certified referendum of citizens, but the duties of
our democratic government were carried out for only twenty years.
The rightfully elected government, related community councils,
and judiciary were abandoned overnight when the original treaties
and territorial boundaries of the White Earth Reservation were
abrogated by congressional plenary power on October 22, 2034.
The exiles were sworn delegates to the constitutional
conventions, and then with the defeasance of treaties and
governance the seven exiled natives turned to the irony and tease of
native stories, and a chance that the great union of peace would
overturn in spirit the course of termination and native banishment.
The Constitution of the White Earth Nation would continue as an
autonomous native government in exile, we resolved that autumn,
with the recommenced ethos of the Great Peace of Montréal at Fort
Saint Charles.
Native traditions were turned into kitschy scenes at casinos, the
conceit of culture, vain drumbeats, and with a bumper cache of
synthetic narcotics, but native stories, the rough ironies of our
liberty, and creative starts and elusive closures, outlasted the
treachery, clandestine chemistry, the empire warrants, and the
monopoly politics of entitlements.
Natives have forever escaped from the treachery of federal
treaties, ran away to adventures, love, war, work, and money, broke
away from reservation corruption, but we were the first political
exiles with a constitution. Liberty has never been an easy beat,
tease, or story.
The seven exiles and a native soprano in her nineties were
steadfast that any history must be envisioned with native stories,
and our ancestors were rightly saluted, an easy gesture to more than
two thousand native envoys who gathered three centuries ago on
the Saint Lawrence River near Montréal and entrusted forty orators
and chiefs to sign by name and totemic mark the great peace union
with the royal province of New France.
Justice Molly Crèche, one of the native exiles of liberty, naturally
praised the sentiments and native signatories of that historic peace
treaty, the first colonial empire to honor native sovereignty and
continental liberty. She declared that native stories were survivance
and diplomatic trickery, and our petitions to continue that peace
treaty entailed ironic reversals of the colonial cession to Great
Britain in the Treaty of Paris.
La Grande Paix de Montréal has never been abrogated in tact or
forsaken in diplomacy. Yet, that historical union and memorable
peace treaty was directly connected to the decimation of totemic
animals in the empire fur trade and has never been forgiven in the
court of shamans, or revised with irony in the native stories of
colonial enterprise and the shakedown of liberty.
 Come closer, listen to the steady crack of totemic bones, trace
the bloody shadows and getaways, endure the steady wingbeats of
scavengers, and count out loud the seasons and centuries of peltry
stacked in canoes, the gory native trade and underfur treasure of
two empires, and the everlasting agony of the beaver.
The beaver and native totems were sacrificed once in the
empires of the fur trade and orders of courtly fashions, and then
totemic animals were converted into tawdry casino tokens, the new
crave of peltry and games of chance.
The animals of cagey casino cultures were considered more as a
nuisance and the sources of new diseases than the traditional
inspiration of survivance totems and continental liberty.
Native storiers and artists portrayed the outrage and cruelties of
cultural memory, and recounted in words and paint the ruins of
native totems and haute couture of the fur trade, the fancy curtains,
carpets, and maladies of casinos. Native creation stories were
derived from totemic visions, and the course of our survivance must
relate to that natural motion of continental liberty.
Hole in the Storm painted a series of grotesque casino gamers
aboard a giant luxury yacht on Lake of the Woods. The cheeky
triptych, Casino Whalers on a Sea of Sovereignty, portrayed the great
waves, backwash, and bloated gamers hunched over rows of watery
slot machines with beaver and totemic animals in place of the
cherries, numbers, and bars on the reels of regulated chance.
Hole in the Storm was one of the seven exiles, and the nephew of
Dogroy Beaulieu, the renowned native artist who was exiled almost
twenty years earlier for his shrouds of totemic creatures and scenes
of decrepit casino gamers.
The White Foxy Casino commissioned seven original paintings
by Auguste Gérard Beaulieu, or Hole in the Storm, a painterly native
nickname, and at the same time casino curators organized an
atonement exhibition to celebrate the distinctive and once traduced
portrayals of his great-uncle Dogroy Beaulieu.
Douglas Roy Beaulieu, a visionary artist, created a sense of
native presence and abstract portrayals of animals, birds, and
totemic unions of creatures. His avian shrouds were acquired by
museums around the world. Yet, the revered painter was menaced
by the tradition fascists and banished from the reservation because
of the portrayals he created of casino gamers connected to oxygen
ports on slot machines, and because of his evocative images of
totemic visions. The miraculous traces of natural motion, the spirits
and shadows of dead animals and birds were revealed on linen
burial shrouds.
The Midewin Messengers, a scary circle of blood count
connivers, coerced several native legislators to disregard the specific
article in the Constitution of the White Earth Nation that clearly
prohibited banishment. The political ouster was reversed several
years later, but the abuse and disrespect of a great native artist
could not be undone with a customary tease, turnabout gossip,
casino drumbeats, or generous waves of cedar smoke.
Dogroy actually thrived as an artist in exile, and, with the
mongrel healer, Breathy Jones, earned a prominence he could not
have achieved in the crude casino culture on the Pale of the White
Earth Nation.
Dogroy connected with other painters and established the
marvelous Gallery of Irony Dogs in the abandoned First Church of
Christ, Scientist located near Elliot Park and the historic Band Box
Diner, a distinctive native quarter in Minneapolis. Some fifteen
years later a heroic bronze statue of the militant poseur Clyde
Bellecourt was erected on the corner near the Gallery of Irony Dogs.
The best native trickster stories were teases of creation,
traditions, marvelous contradictions, and ironic enticements of
weird and visionary flight. The stories were never about the abstract
patois of treaties, entente cordiale, or native sovereignty. Now our
stories must tease and controvert the capitol promises and betrayals
as much as the sex, creation, and hardy escapades of lusty tricksters.
Some stories were risky, erotic hyperbole, and with no sense of
shame because the sex conversions, masturbation, and other
seductive adventures started with our ancestors. Candor was natural
and the fakery of literary denouement was not necessary.
Newcomers, fur traders, missionaries, and the course accountants
of reservation enlightenment seldom weathered the teases or
survived the mighty twists of trickster mercy. Truly, the new sector
Random documents with unrelated
content Scribd suggests to you:
 Jane, however, would have no part in the pretense.

“We have to do this right or it won’t work,” Veve instructed the

Brownies. “Everyone close her eyes.”

“Not I!” announced Jane.

“Now everyone wish very hard for a beautiful little house right
above our heads in this oak,” went on Veve, ignoring Jane. “Wish
hard, hard, HARD.”

Jane snickered.

“Where’s your tree house?” she teased. “I don’t hear any

hammering.”

“The charm didn’t work because you wouldn’t wish,” Veve retorted
crossly.

“It didn’t work because there aren’t any brownies,” corrected Jane.
“Of all the silly ideas—”

A stone clattered down the hillside, rolling and bouncing until it

came to rest almost at the base of the oak tree.

“What was that?” Jane interrupted herself, startled by the sound.

Veve was staring at the stone, unable to believe her own eyesight.

“Look!” she finally managed to say.

Attached to the stone—in fact, wrapped entirely around it—was a

paper. A rubber band held it tightly in place.

“Well, what do you know?” Jane mumbled.

By this time Veve had recovered from the first shocked surprise.
 Darting forward, she seized the stone.

“It’s a message for us!” she shouted. “Who says now that there
aren’t any brownies?”
 CHAPTER 2

The Tossed Stone

SO excited that they chattered like a flock of blackbirds, the Brownie
Scouts gathered about Veve.

“Open it quick!” urged Connie.

“What does it say?” demanded Jane, forgetting that she ever had
teased Veve about being silly.

The stone obviously had been tossed from the cliff a short
distance behind the oak tree.

Miss Gordon gazed quickly in that direction. However, the face of

the cliff was covered with cedar and scrub trees. She could see no
one hiding there.

“Here, give me that paper!” Eileen exclaimed, trying to take it

from Veve. “Your hand is shaking so you can’t unwrap it.”

Veve, however, had gained a grip upon herself. Quickly, she

unrolled the paper.

“It is a message for us!” she cried. “It is!”

“Read it, can’t you?” pleaded Jane.

“‘To the little girl who believes in brownies,’” Veve began, her voice
shaky. “‘Return to this same tree two days from today and who
knows? Your wish may be fulfilled.’”

“Well, can you beat that?” Jane muttered.

“It proves there are brownies!” Veve cried happily. “We’re to have
our tree house!”

“If that brownie is so smart, why didn’t he just wave a wand and
have the tree house built presto-chango?” Eileen asked, doubt
entering her mind. “You know what I think? Someone is playing a
joke on us!”

“Of course!” agreed Jane, seizing upon the explanation. “From

that cliff above, our conversation easily could be heard. Every word
of it!”

“Let’s find out,” proposed Connie. “May we go up there, Miss

Gordon?”

The teacher hesitated and then nodded consent. “Yes, I think we

should investigate,” she said. “I’m curious myself to learn who
tossed that stone. I tend to share Jane’s belief that someone must
be playing a joke on us.”

Losing not a moment, the Brownie Scouts started up the steep

trail. In their haste they slipped and scuffed their shoes on the sharp
stones. But at last they reached the summit.

“No one here!” Connie announced, glancing carefully about.

“Of course not!” exclaimed Sunny triumphantly. “That proves the

message came from a genuine brownie!”

“Genuine, my eye!” Jane cut in. “Ask Miss Gordon if fairies and
brownies are real.”
 “We all know they are merely story-book characters,” the Brownie
Scout leader said. Then, seeing how crestfallen Sunny and Veve
looked, she added kindly:

“But someone certainly tossed a message down the slope. Let’s

look around for clues.”

Spreading out, the girls covered every inch of the cleared area.

“Someone was here all right!” cried Connie as she came upon
several large footprints. “He wasn’t a brownie either! Look at these
huge footprints!”

At least six large shoe marks were visible in the moist earth.

“A person could have stood here and looked directly down upon
our picnic site,” Miss Gordon observed. “I wonder if voices carry that
far.”

Eileen and Rosemary offered to run back to the oak tree to make
a test. Five minutes later as they talked together below the cliff,
those above were able to hear nearly every word.

“That explains how the person chanced to learn of Veve’s wish,”

Miss Gordon said.

“But it doesn’t explain who threw the stone,” protested Veve.

“It was someone’s idea of a practical joke,” Connie replied, sitting

down on a log to rest. “Too bad! I’d have liked a tree house. Think
of the good times we could have had there.”

“Maybe we’ll get it yet,” Veve hinted.

The others, with the exception of Sunny, laughed. They were

convinced that the stone had been thrown by a practical joker.
 “All right, laugh!” Veve said crossly. “Maybe I will have the last
one.”

“You aren’t silly enough to think that tree house will be built?”
Jane demanded.

“Maybe it will. At any rate, I intend to come back here in two days
to see.”

“Why wait two days?” Sunny asked. “Let’s come again tomorrow.”

Veve, however, said that would never do. “We must obey
instructions exactly,” she insisted. “Miss Gordon, may we have
another hike through the park?”

“Well, I suppose so, if the others are willing,” the Brownie leader
answered thoughtfully. “As for finding a tree house at the end of two
days—well, Veve, I think it unwise to build up false hope.”

“At least it won’t do any harm to come,” Veve argued. “Please,

Miss Gordon.”

“It’s entirely up to the girls to decide what they wish to do.”

Veve quickly put the matter to a vote. Everyone except Jane said
they would like to return to the park area in two days.

Rejoining Rosemary and Eileen at the oak tree, the girls gathered
together their knapsacks and nature notebooks.

Now not even Veve really expected that upon their return to the
area they would find anything out of the ordinary.

However, in the past the Brownies had enjoyed several unusual

adventures. From experience they knew that strange things could
occur. Hadn’t the entire troop once been snowbound at Snow Valley?
 And another time, Veve and Connie had been carried away with a
traveling circus. The Brownie Scouts never would forget that time,
because in trying to find the two girls they also had become involved
with a man named Pickpocket Joe.

Even more recently the Brownies had earned a great deal of

money picking cherries at a nearby orchard. Through their efforts
the city had sponsored a cherry festival. Then, as a special reward,
the Brownies had been sent to Washington with all expenses paid.
This story has been recounted in another volume, entitled: “The
Brownie Scouts in the Cherry Festival.”

Wishing for a tree house, however, was an entirely different

matter. Even Veve and Sunny who were very imaginative, knew that
fairies existed only in story books. Yet could one be certain that the
message telling them to return had been a joke?

“Time to start home,” Miss Gordon abruptly announced. “We’ve

had enough excitement for one day.”

En route to the exit gate, the girls kept an alert watch for
strangers. The trail was deserted and not a car had been parked in
the enclosure near the road.

Without meeting a single person they came presently to the

caretaker’s stone hut.

“Let’s stop here a minute,” Connie suggested. “Maybe the

superintendent can tell us who has been in the park today.”

“An excellent idea,” agreed Miss Gordon. “I was about to propose

the same thing myself. I also want to ask the caretaker about those
markings on the trees.”

A cheerful fire blazed on the hearth inside the stone gatehouse.

 As the Brownies shuffled in, the superintendent, Charlie Karwhite,
poked at a log to stir up the flames.

Hearing footsteps, he turned around to smile at the girls. The six

were dressed exactly alike in pinchecked Brownie uniforms, stout
hiking shoes, and beanies on their heads.

“Well, well,” he said in a friendly way. “A delegation! Anything I

can do for you?”

Mr. Karwhite, a man well past middle age, had supervised the
metropolitan park for seven years.

The heavily wooded tract was less than a mile from the outskirts
of Rosedale. Stone fireplaces had been built in the area and many
trails marked. For the most part, however, the park remained in its
natural state.

Circling around, the Brownies enjoyed the warmth of the fire.

Miss Gordon explained that the troop had hiked through the park.
“A few minutes ago we had a most unusual experience,” she added.

Sensing that the teacher had something interesting to report, Mr.

Karwhite put his poker away and listened attentively.

“First of all, may I ask a question?” began Miss Gordon. “Are all
your trees correctly marked with scientific names?”

“Why, yes. The job was done early this spring by Phillip Mallet, the
naturalist.”

“Several trees on Trail 3 seem to be improperly identified. Either

that or I am hopelessly confused.”

“I’ve not been over the trail within the last three days,” Mr.
Karwhite replied. “I’ll check the matter as soon as I can.”
 The matter of the trees disposed of, the Brownie leader next
asked the superintendent if many persons had visited the park that
morning.

“Not many,” he informed. “A few boys came through right after

breakfast. They didn’t stay long.”

“No one else?”

“Two or three cars drove through.”

“No one in the last hour or so?”

“Not that I’ve noticed,” Mr. Karwhite answered. “However, there is

another gateway at the far end of the park. Anything wrong?”

“Someone played a little joke on us,” the teacher said. “We were
eating our lunch by a large oak tree when someone tossed a stone
from the cliff.”

“A message was attached,” contributed Sunny. “It said—”

Jane gave her a hard nudge in the ribs. She did not want Mr.
Karwhite to hear about the tree house.

Sunny subsided into silence. The superintendent did not appear to

notice how quickly she had broken off.

“It must have been those boys who threw the stone,” he said.
“I’ve warned ’em to behave themselves or have their park privileges
denied.”

“We’re making no complaint,” Miss Gordon said quickly. “After all,

it was just a little joke. Furthermore, we aren’t certain who tossed
the stone. The footprints we saw on the cliff were quite large.”

“Well, if you’re annoyed again, let me know,” Mr. Karwhite invited.

“I’ll not tolerate any foolishness.”
 The Brownies soon said good-bye to the superintendent and
started for home. Veve and Sunny lagged at the rear of the line,
talking over the events of the morning.

“Maybe it was just a joke,” Veve said, walking along with her arm
about Sunny’s waist. “I don’t think so though.”

“Neither do I,” agreed the other. “I’m certain that stone never was
thrown by a boy.”

“There’s one thing sure,” Veve announced impressively. “I don’t

care what the other Brownies do! Two days from today I’m going
back to the park.”

“So am I,” agreed Sunny. “I don’t really believe in fairies, but if we

should get our tree house—how wonderful it would be!”
 CHAPTER 3

Surprise!
TWO days had elapsed.

For the Brownie Scouts, never had time seemed to pass so slowly.

“Oh, I hardly can wait to see if anything has happened!” Veve

declared excitedly.

Except for Sunny and herself, the other girls pretended they
weren’t much excited at the thought of returning to the metropolitan
park area.

Actually, they wouldn’t have missed the hike for anything in the
world.

On the appointed day, the girls gathered after school at Miss

Gordon’s home.

Each Brownie brought her own neat package of sandwiches. In

addition, the leader had provided two thermos bottles filled with hot
chocolate.

“This is a silly trip,” Jane complained good-naturedly. “I wish we’d

gone somewhere else.”

The beautiful early autumn day had turned a trifle chilly. Even if
the weather had not been nippy, the girls would have walked fast, so
eager were they to reach the park.
 “I don’t know why I came,” Jane went on. “It’s a long walk out
here.”

“No one asked you to come,” Veve said crossly. She was certain
that when they reached the oak tree, Jane would say “I told you so.”
Already she had been teased too much about wishing for a tree
house.

“Girls, let’s not bicker,” interposed Miss Gordon. “I thought we

were going on this hike for the fun of it. I’m sure no one expects to
find a tree house.”

Veve and Sunny looked at each other and made no response.

“They expect to find one!” teased Jane. “I guess all that wishful
dreaming comes from reading books like ‘Jack and the Beanstalk.’
Veve figures a tree house will sprout out of the ground, complete
with curtains and a fireplace!”

“Oh, hush!” Veve retorted savagely.

Miss Gordon brought peace by directing the girls’ attention to a

rabbit which had paused near a briar patch. When Jane tried to
creep closer, the animal hopped away.

Passing the stone gatehouse, the Brownies again selected Trail

three.

“Why don’t we eat our lunch before we go to the cliff?” proposed

Jane. “I’m hungry.”

“Try eating your words for a while,” Veve muttered. “The rest of us
want to go straight to the oak tree.”

Jane said no more. Or at least she managed to remain silent until

the troop approached the cliff area. Then she could not resist
remarking: “If we should find anything, I’d drop dead! I would for a
fact.”

Veve, who was at the head of the line of hikers, had stopped on
the trail.

“All right, Jane!” she exclaimed. “Drop dead then! ’Cause I can see
something ahead.”

“Oh, you’re kidding,” Jane retorted, unimpressed. “You don’t see a

thing.”

“Don’t I?” demanded Veve. “Then my eyes are deceiving me!”

Swinging her knapsack over the other shoulder, she ran forward.

“Do you suppose—” Sunny began, and then she uttered a little
shriek of joy. “Veve’s right!” she cried. “Something has been built in
the oak tree!”

Sunny also bolted down the trail.

Not to miss out on anything, the other girls followed as fast as

they could.

Reaching the clearing, the Brownies stopped dead in their tracks.

Directly ahead of them stood Veve and Sunny, their enchanted

gaze fastened upon a little house built in the lower branches of the
oak tree.

“Pinch me,” whispered Connie. “I know I’m dreaming.”

Eileen obliged by giving her such a hard nip that she yipped in
pain.

“Is it real?” whispered Rosemary in awe. “It doesn’t seem

possible!”
 Jane was too dumbfounded to speak. Veve and Sunny however,
capered around as if they were crazy.

“Didn’t we tell you?” Veve shouted. “Now who says wishes don’t
come true?”

The square house had a window, a door and a balcony with a

stairway leading down. The steps were far apart, but a railing had
been put up so that anyone climbing to the little house would not
fall.

“What are we waiting for?” demanded Veve. Excitedly, she started

up the stairway.

“Veve!” called Miss Gordon.

Reluctantly the little girl waited for the teacher.

“Dear me, I don’t know what to think!” Miss Gordon declared

testing the stairway. “The steps are well constructed and seem safe
enough.”

“Up I go!” shouted Veve.

Before the teacher could offer a protest, she darted up the steps.

Reaching the balcony, Veve turned to look down. The Brownies,

watching from below, appeared rather small.

“Oh, it’s a wonderful house!” the little girl shouted. “And it’s all
ours too!”

She disappeared into the house.

Sunny and Connie now started up the stairway, but Miss Gordon
called them back.
 “I must be certain that the steps are strong enough to bear so
much weight,” she warned. “I’ll climb up first. Then if it appears
safe, you all may come.”

“Hurry! Hurry!” urged Jane, who now had forgotten that she ever
had made fun of Veve or Sunny.

As Miss Gordon started up the steps, Veve popped her head out of
a window.

“It’s super—simply super!” she yelled down. “The house has a

window seat and a cupboard!”

The other Brownies by this time were jumping up and down in

their excitement. Unable to wait for Miss Gordon to give the word,
Eileen started up a few steps.

“The stairway is very sturdily built,” the leader called down. “You
may come up one at a time. Eileen first, since she is half way up.”

Each girl took her turn. Jane, the disbeliever, was the last one to
climb the stairway.

As she viewed the interior of the neat playhouse, her breath was
quite taken away.

“Oh, this place will look grand when we bring dishes and books
and put curtains at the window!” she exclaimed.

“But is it really ours?” returned Miss Gordon quietly. “I can’t

understand how this house came to be here. It is well built,
evidently by a skilled carpenter.”

“We don’t care who built it,” chortled Jane. “It’s ours to use, isn’t
it?”
 “I’m far from certain that it is,” replied the leader. “This is a public
park you must remember.”

“Very few people come here, especially so late in the year.”

“All the same, I’m sure no one would have the right to put up a
tree house without permission. Or for that matter to use it.”

The house had been built large enough so that all the Brownies
and their leader could enter.

At first Miss Gordon would allow only two or three of the girls in
the room at one time. As the house remained absolutely firm in the
branches she finally permitted the others to join the group.

“Let’s eat our lunch here!” Connie proposed. “Oh, we’re going to
have wonderful times!”

“Providing we’re allowed to use the playhouse,” Miss Gordon

reminded her. “It’s a marvelous thing in a way—but I can’t
understand how it came about.”

“The brownies,” laughed Veve.

“A very substantial brownie, I think,” said Miss Gordon. “Mr.

Karwhite may know something about the matter. We’ll question him
when we leave the park.”

As the girls ate their sandwiches and sipped hot chocolate, they
made elaborate plans. The house was perfect, they thought, except
that it needed a table and chairs.

“How cosy it will look with a rag rug on the floor and a curtain at
the window,” Rosemary declared. “And the view! One can see the
road from here!”

“And the stone bridge!” added Eileen, peering over her shoulder.
 “I feel just like a bird living up in a tree,” laughed Veve happily.
“Wouldn’t it be fun to sleep here at night?”

“The house would rock you to sleep!” laughed Connie. “It’s just
like a cradle when the wind blows.”

“It wouldn’t be any fun in a storm,” Sunny said with a shiver. “This
house would rock like an earthquake was shaking it then. And it
might come crashing down.”

The girls so thoroughly enjoyed themselves in the little house that

they took a long while eating lunch.

With an anxious glance at her wrist watch, Miss Gordon warned

that it was time to leave.

“We have stayed far too long,” she declared, gathering up the
lunch papers. “Unless we hurry, we’ll be caught on the road after
dark. That will never do.”

“We may come again soon?” Sunny pleaded. “Tomorrow

perhaps?”

“I hardly know what to say,” replied Miss Gordon. “Before I give

my answer, I must make inquiries. I do hope though, that this house
is truly ours to use.”

Reluctantly, the girls trooped down from the tree house.

Once on the ground, they stood for a moment, gazing up at it.

“Wouldn’t it be dreadful if it vanished over night?” Connie said,

voicing the fear that had beset them all. “Oh, it’s such a perfect little
house!”

“Let’s wish hard that it’s just for us,” proposed Sunny.

Not even Jane offered a protest.

 “And let’s wish that the brownie, whoever he is, builds us a nice
table and set of chairs!” added Veve.

“Why, that’s greedy,” protested Connie. “We should be grateful

that we have this splendid house.”

Veve, however, only laughed, as she turned to follow the others

up the trail.

“It’s forethought,” she insisted. “I have a hunch we’ll get to use

this darling little tree house for a long while. So while that Mr.
Brownie is in a good mood, why not ask him to do a good job of
furnishing our home?”
 CHAPTER 4

Through the Field Glass

IN leaving the park area, the Brownies again stopped at the gate
house to talk to Mr. Karwhite.

The superintendent listened in amazement to their story that a

tree house had been built in the branches of the oak.

“Why, I can’t believe it!” he exclaimed.

“Then the house couldn’t have been constructed by park

workmen,” remarked Miss Gordon.

“I should say not!” agreed Mr. Karwhite. “We’d be afraid to put up

a tree house lest some child climb up and fall. I’ll have it torn down
immediately.”

A wail of protest greeted this announcement.

“Oh, no! You can’t!” cried Veve. “It’s such a cute little house.”

“It was built for the Brownies too,” insisted Sunny earnestly. “It
would be a shame to destroy such a darling little place.”

“The house seems very well built,” added Miss Gordon. “Whoever
put it up knew his business.”

“That’s what annoys me,” sputtered Mr. Karwhite. “No one had the
right to put up any structure without my permission. Where is this
tree house?”

Although the hour was growing late, the Brownies offered to show
the superintendent the way.

Back at the oak, Mr. Karwhite scratched his head in perplexity as

he gazed up at the house amid the leaves.

“Well, at least it looks well built and in keeping with the rustic
design of other park buildings,” he admitted grudgingly.

“Then you won’t tear it down?” Connie asked.

“I suppose it could stay up until winter,” the superintendent said

after he had inspected the stairway. “Now that it’s so late in the
season not many children come here any more. The house isn’t as
high from the ground as I thought either.”

“And the stairway has a railing,” pointed out Eileen. “Oh, Mr.
Karwhite, having a little house like this would be so wonderful!”

The superintendent turned to Miss Gordon. “I can’t have children

playing here unwatched,” he said. “Now, if you were to be here with
them—”

“I always accompany the Brownies on all their hikes.”

“Then I’ll let the house stand for the time being,” the man
consented. “I don’t know who built this house, but I have an idea.
Most of the work must have been done late in the day when I’m at
the other end of the park feeding the deer.”

The Brownies plied Mr. Karwhite with questions, seeking to learn

the name of the person he thought might have built the house.

“I can’t say,” the superintendent put them aside. “I intend to do a

little investigating though.”
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