The lazy Indian father was angry. He seized the pudding stick, and struck the child to the ground. Instantly a bird flew up and perched on the pole over the fire, from which the kettle hung.
"Now it's done!" said the bird solemnly, for it did not seem to have a light heart like other birds.
Now, strange as it may seem this father was no longer cruel and lazy. His lazy spirit seemed to have gone. He wanted to go at once on the chase, and hunt food for his wife and little boy.
"To-night you shall have deer meat to eat," he said, as he spread a soft skin by the fire, for the boy to lie on. Then he turned to place the child on the skin,—but no boy was there. He had no son. Only that strange bird perched, joyless and alone, over the fire, on the pole from which the kettle hung.
"Now it's done!" the bird cried again, and with that it flew out of the wigwam.
That spring the Indians discovered a new bird in the woods. The bird was too lazy to build a real nest.
This bird did not weave together twigs and moss, leaves and ferns, bits of hair and thistledown, to make a cozy, warm, safe nest for its eggs and young, as did the other birds. This bird would lay its eggs anywhere. Wherever a few sticks lay crosswise in a track, or in a little hollow of the ground, or where some twigs or dried ferns were caught loosely in a bush, there this lazy bird would lay its eggs and rear its young.
It was too lazy to build a real nest, that was safe and warm for its little ones.
The Indians called the bird "the cuckoo." But only one Indian knew how the cuckoo came to be, and why it is too lazy to build a real nest.
A wise old raccoon sat up in a tree near the river where the bear lost his tail. The coon saw the fox play his foxy trick on the bear, and he did not like it.
"The fox is getting a big head," said the coon. "This must not be. His head must be made smaller. Some of the foxiness must be taken out of it. He is getting too foxy. He thinks he has the cunning of all the animals, and that no one can outwit him. Some one must play a 'fox' trick on him."
Not many days later, the coon saw the fox coming down the trail. The coon was eating some juicy yellow apples that he had found on a tree not far away. As soon as he saw the fox, he ran up a tree, and began to smack his lips as the fox had done to tempt the bear.
The fox stopped under the tree, just as the bear had stopped.
"What tastes so good?" he asked.
For answer the coon threw down an apple to the fox, just as the fox had thrown the piece of fish down to the bear.
The fox took the apple and ate it.
"Fine! Fine!" said the fox, when he had finished the last mouthful. "Where did you get it?"
The coon then told the fox how to find the apple tree. He must follow the trail along the river, down to the pine bluff. Then he must climb the bluff and run toward the setting sun, until he came to an open field. In the center of that field stood a great apple tree. It was filled with juicy yellow apples.
"But you can climb the tree and pick your own apples. How can I get them off the tree?" whined the fox.
"Oh, that's easy," said the coon. "Just back off two bow shots from the tree, then lower your head,—so. Run hard and butt the tree with your head. You have such a big head, it will shake the tree so hard that all the apples will fall at once. Do as I tell you, and you will have all the apples you want for a long time."
The fox thanked the coon and started at once.
He found the apple tree, just as the coon had said.
"What a fine open place to run in," thought the fox. "I will get such a fine start that when I hit the tree it will shake the world."
Already he began, in his mind, to see the apples falling, like pine needles, and to feel the earth shake under his feet.
The fox did as the coon had told him. One arrow flight he backed off, then another. Then he closed his eyes, lowered his head, and ran swiftly over the thick grass. He struck the tree as hard as ever he could, with his big head.
Not an apple fell, but a dazed, foolish-looking fox fell to the ground.
Next morning as the sun rose, a shame-faced fox was seen running toward the woods beyond the pine bluff. He carried his head low, and he seemed to be playing no foxy tricks.
It was some moons after the coon outwitted the fox, before they again met. The coon was hurrying by, when the fox saw him.
Now the fox had not forgotten the trick the coon had played on him. His head was still sore from that great thump against the apple tree. So the fox started after the coon. He was gaining, and would have caught him, had they not come to a tall pine tree.
The coon ran to the very tiptop of the pine tree. There he was safe, for the fox could not climb.
The fox lay down on the soft pine needles and waited for the coon to come down. The coon stayed up in the pine tree so long that the fox grew tired and sleepy. He closed his eyes and thought he would take a short nap.
The coon watched, until he saw that the fox was sound asleep. Then he took in his mouth some of the pitch from the pine tree. He ran down the tree and rubbed the pitch over the eyes of the sleeping fox.
The fox awoke. He sprang up and tried to seize the coon, but, alas! he could not see what he was doing. The lids of his eyes were held fast with the pine gum. He could not open them.
The coon laughed at the fox's plight, then ran and left him.
The fox lay for some time under the tree. The pine gum, as it dried, held the lids of his eyes closer and closer shut. He thought he should never again see the sun.
Some birds were singing near by. He called them, and told them of his plight. He asked if they would be so kind as to pick open his eyes.
The birds flew off and told the other birds. Soon many of the little dark songsters flew back to where the fox lay. Then peck, peck, peck, went the little bills on the eyelids of the fox. Bit by bit they carefully pecked away the pine gum. If one grew tired, another bird would take its place.
At last the fox saw a streak of light. Soon the lid of one eye flew open, then the other. The sun was shining, and the world looked very beautiful to the fox, as he opened his eyes.
He was very grateful to the little birds for bringing him light. He told them to ask what they would, and he would give it to them.
The little birds said, "We do not like the plain, dark suits which the Turkey Buzzard brought us. Make us look like the sun we have brought to you."
The fox looked about him. Beautiful yellow flowers were growing near. He pressed some of the sun color from them, and with the tip of his tail as a brush, he began to paint the dark little birds like the sun.
The birds fluttered so with joy, he thought he would paint the bodies first. Before he could brush the wings and tails with the sun paint, each little bird had darted away, like a streak of sunshine. So happy and light of heart were the birds, that they could not wait for the fox to finish the painting.
This is why goldfinches are yellow like the sun. It is why they have black wings and tails, why they flutter so with joy, and why they never finish their song.
Long ago, birds, trees, animals, and men knew each the language of the other, and all could talk together.
In those days, the trees of the forest grew very large and strong. At last they came to know their strength too well. They became selfish, and proud, and quarrelsome. Each tree boasted that he was the greatest and strongest. Each one struggled to gain for himself the most earth, the best air, the brightest sun. No tree had a thought for the other.
One day the trunk of a great Maple tried to crowd out an Ash. The Ash, of course, thought he had as much right to stand there as the Maple, and he said he would not stir a limb.
"Get out of my way," cried the Maple. "I am greater than you, and of more use to man; for I furnish the sweet water for him to drink."
"Indeed, I will not!" said the Ash. "I am greater than you, and of more use to man than you; for I furnish the tough wood from which he makes his bow."
At this the trees fell to wrestling. Back and forth, in and out they swayed, each trying to throw the other. They forgot that they were brothers in the wood.
Then the South Wind came along. He heard the loud voices and stopped to find out what the quarrel was about.
"I am greater than you, for I furnish the sweet water for man to drink," came the angry voice of the Maple, as he threw his huge trunk against the Ash.
"No, you are not," retorted the Ash, and he sent the Maple back with a great push of his strong elbow. "I am greater than you, for I furnish the tough wood from which he makes his bow."
For a time, the South Wind watched them writhe and twist and try to throw each other to the ground. Then he said, softly, "You, O Maple, do not cause the sweet water to flow for man; nor do you, O Ash, make your wood to grow pliant and tough for his bow."
"Who does, then?" they asked defiantly.
"Listen," said the South Wind, "and you shall hear."
Then the Maple and Ash forgot their quarrel. They bent their heads so low and close to listen, that an arm of the Maple slipped through an arm of the Ash.
And as they stood thus listening, each with an arm locked in an arm of the other, the South Wind gently swayed them to and fro. Then a voice was heard, singing, "San noh-eh! San noh-eh! San noh-eh!" which means, "The Mother of all things."
Thus it was that the Ash and the Maple learned that it was Mother Earth who gave them their life, and power, and strength, and that they were brothers, because they had one Mother.
The Ash and the Maple whispered the secret to the birds. The birds came and listened to the voice, and went and told the animals. The animals came and listened, and went and told men. And thus all the earth children learned that there is one Great Mother of every living thing, and that all are brothers.
And now, whenever two trees lock arms lovingly, and the South Wind sways them gently to and fro, that same voice may be heard, singing, "San noh-eh! San noh-eh! San noh-eh!"
An Indian woman built a wigwam in the deep wood. She was a brave woman. She had no fear.
One night, she heard something coming along the trail. Thump, thump, thump, it came, to the very door of her wigwam.
There was a rap.
"Come in," said the woman, but no one entered.
Again there came a rap.
Again the woman called, "Come in." Again the latch was not lifted.
A third time the rap came. A third time the woman called, "Come in," but no one entered.
Then the strange thump, thump, thump, was heard going down the trail.
The next night, the same thing occurred. Soon after dark, the woman heard the thump, thump, thump, coming along the trail. Up to the very door of the wigwam it came.
Three times, a rap, rap, rap, was heard as before. Three times the woman answered, "Come in," but no one entered.
Then the same strange thump, thump, thump, was heard going down the trail again.
The third night, the woman thought she would make sure who was calling. She stood for a long time, with her hand on the latch.
At last she heard the visitor coming. Thump, thump, thump, it came along the trail. There were three raps.
"Come in," called the woman, but the latch did not move in her hand. She waited. Again came the raps.
This time she threw wide open the door, and there stood a great black bear. He showed his sharp teeth and growled, "Are you at home?"
The woman looked him straight in the eye and replied, "I am at home."
At once the bear turned on his heel and went down the trail, as fast as he could go.
Never again did the woman hear that strange thump, thump, thump; and never again did the bear call to see if she were at home.
Once upon a time, the Great Spirit left the Happy Hunting Ground and came to earth. He took the form of a poor, hungry man. He went from wigwam to wigwam, asking for food.
Sometimes he found the Indians sitting around the fire, telling stories and talking of the Great Spirit. Then the man would pass by unseen.
One day, he came to a wigwam in which a woman was baking cakes.
"I am very hungry," the man said. "Will you please give me a cake?"
The woman looked at the man, and then at the cake. She saw that it was too large to give away.
She said, "I will not give you this cake, but I will bake you one, if you will wait."
The hungry man said, "I will wait."
Then the woman took a small piece of dough and made it into a cake and baked it. But when she took this cake from the coals, it was larger than the first.
Again the woman looked at her cake. Again she saw it was too large to give away. Again she said, "I will not give you this one, but I will bake you one, if you will wait."
Again the man said, "I will wait."
This time the woman took a very, very, tiny bit of dough, and made it into a cake.
"Surely, this will be small enough to give away," she thought, yet when baked it was larger than both the others.
The woman stood and looked at the three cakes. Each was too large to give away.
"I will not give you any of the cakes," she said to the man. "Go to the woods, and find your food in the bark of trees."
Then the man stood up and threw off his ragged blanket and worn moccasins. His face shone like the sun, and he was very beautiful. The woman shrank into the shadow of the wigwam. She could not look upon his face, for the light.
"I am the Great Spirit," said he, "and you are a selfish woman. Women should be kind, and generous, and unselfish. You shall no longer be a woman and live in a warm wigwam, with plenty of cakes to bake. You shall go to the forest and hunt your food in the bark of trees. Summer and winter, you shall eat worms of the same size as the cake you would have made for me."
The woman began to grow smaller and smaller. Feathers grew upon her body, and wings sprang from it. The Great Spirit touched her head, and it became red.
"Always shall you wear this red hood," he said, "as a mark of your shame. Always shall you hide from man. Always shall you hunt for little worms, the size of the cake you made for me."
At this a sharp cry was heard, and a bird flew into the fireplace of the wigwam, and up the chimney. As it passed out of the chimney, the soot left those long streaks of black which we see now on the woodpecker's back.
Ever since then, this woodpecker has had a red head, and has been hiding from man on the farther side of the tree trunk, and boring in the bark for little worms.
A great many winters ago, there lived at the foot of a certain lake a tribe of wicked Indians. These Indians were so fierce, and warlike, and wasteful, they went about destroying everything.
They laid low a tract of beautiful forest trees, for no good purpose. They tore up shrubs and plants that gave them food and medicine. They shot their arrows into every bird or animal they saw, just for sport.
The great trees—their silent brothers of the wood—trembled and sighed when they heard these Indians coming. The squirrels darted into hollow trees, and birds flew in alarm at their footsteps. The deer and rabbit ran from the trail.
At last the Great Spirit became very angry with this tribe. Always he had taught the Indians never to kill an animal, unless for food and protection; never to fell a tree, unless for fuel or shelter; never to dig up shrubs or plants, unless for some good use.
"All life," the Great Spirit had said, "is sacred and beautiful. It must not be wasted."
And never before had he known the Indians to waste the beautiful living things about them. The Great Spirit was very sad.
The ice formed very thick on the lake that winter.
One night, there came a great storm of wind and rain. The ice broke loose from the shores, and the wind blew it down the lake. At the foot of the lake, a mass of ice was piled high over the shore, where lived these wasteful Indians.
Like a giant roof, the ice spread over the little Indian village lying there asleep, but the Indians did not know. They slept on, unaware of their danger, for a deep, heavy sleep had come upon them.
Just as the sun rose, the ice roof gave way and fell upon the sleeping Indians, crushing them in their wigwams.
The waste they had brought upon their brothers of the wood had brought punishment upon them. The Great Spirit had destroyed these wicked Indians, that the good Indians might keep his world beautiful.
Ever after, as long as the Indians occupied the country, before the White man came, no trees were felled, and no animals or birds were killed, unless for some wise and useful purpose.
At one time, the animals had tribes and chiefs, like men. It was when the porcupine was chief, that a council was called.
A great fire was lighted, for it was night. When all the animals were seated around the fire, the porcupine spoke.
"Friends," he said, "we have met here to settle a great question: 'Shall we have night all the time, or day?'" At this, all the animals began to talk at once. There was great confusion. The night animals kept shouting, "Night, night! Always night!" Others of the animals cried, "Day, day! Always day!" Still others called for "Day and night!"
There was so much noise that it could not be decided what was best.
At last the animals grew tired of calling. One by one the voices grew fainter, and the shouting ceased. Of the night animals, the voice of the bear alone was heard. He had a big voice and still kept calling, "Night, night! Always night!"
The animals who wanted day all the time, and those who wanted day and night, also became quiet,—all except the chipmunk. He chattered on, "We will have light—and then night. We will have light—and then night. Chee, chee, chee!"
Then the bear, too, became tired. He was fat and lazy, and so sleepy! He thought he would take a short nap.
But all night long the wide-awake little chipmunk kept up his song. Not for a moment did he stop to rest. Out of the dark came his voice, sure and cheery, "We will have light—and then night. We will have light—and then night! Chee, chee, chee!"
And before the animals knew it, the sun began to rise.
At the first rays of light, the bear sat up, blinked, and rubbed his eyes. He saw that while he had slept, light had indeed come. He knew that he and the night animals had been beaten in the council, and that the chipmunk and the animals who wanted day and night had won.
The bear was very angry. He struck at the chipmunk with his paw. But he was clumsy, and the chipmunk was spry!
The chipmunk laughed and sprang into a hole of a hollow tree near by. But those black stripes on the chipmunk's back show where the paw of the black bear touched him as he slipped into the tree.
Ever since this council, and the little chipmunk called so long and loud for "light and night," we have had day and night.
Flying Squirrel and Lightning Bow were two little Indian boys. They lived by Singing River, and they played from sunrise to sunset. They were as happy as the day was long.
In the summer, they fished and swam in Singing River, and they shot their arrows into chipmunk and woodpecker holes. Sometimes they played "Dodging Arrows," a game their mother had taught them when they were very young.
In the winter, they jumped into fleecy snowdrifts and rolled until their little bronze bodies took on a red-raspberry tint. Then they would send their snow-snakes skimming over the hard crust of snow.
Snow-snakes were small rods of wood, polished smooth with resin, oil, or wax. They could be thrown long distances. Long Moose—Lightning Bow and Flying Squirrel's father—could throw a snow-snake a mile and a half, over the crust of the snow. But the snow-snakes he used were eight feet long and tipped with lead.
It was the Moon of Berries. Six times had Flying Squirrel and Lightning Bow seen the Berry Moon hang her horn in the night sky. And not once in all their lives had they quarreled.
One morning, Flying Squirrel and Lightning Bow planned a foot race. Seven times they were to run. Three times, Flying Squirrel had made the goal first. Three times, Lightning Bow had outrun him. The seventh race was claimed by each. No one saw them run, so no one could decide the game. And they fell to quarreling.
Louder and louder their voices were raised. More and more angry they grew.
White Fawn, their mother, was baking corn bread on the coals of the wigwam fire. The angry voices reached her ears. She stepped to the door.
"For shame!" she called. "Go and set up your sticks."
Then she showed Lightning Bow and Flying Squirrel how to set up three sticks so they would stand for many days.
"Now go into the wood, set up your sticks, and leave your quarrel there," she said. "When the Berry Moon has passed, you shall return and see if the sticks are still standing.
"If they lean toward the rising sun, Lightning Bow was right. If they lean toward the setting sun, Flying Squirrel won. If they have fallen down, neither was right and neither won."
Lightning Bow and Flying Squirrel went into the wood and set up their sticks. Then they began to throw balls with willow wands, and soon they were happy again.
The sun had risen and set many times. The Berry Moon had passed. It was the Thunder Moon, when White Fawn said to Lightning Bow and Flying Squirrel, "Today you may go into the wood and see if your sticks are still standing."
Hand in hand, the two little Indian boys ran into the wood. They found only a heap of rotting sticks.
Flying Squirrel and Lightning Bow stood and looked at the sticks. They thought and thought.
"What did we set up the sticks for?" each asked of the other.
And for the life of them they could not remember what they had quarreled about, and why they had set up the sticks!
Once a tribe of the Iroquois became very warlike and cruel. They liked to follow the warpath rather than the hunting trails.
These warriors thought only of the war dance. They forgot to give thanks for the sweet waters of the maple, and for the planting season. Neither did they remember to praise the Great Spirit, in song and dance, for the juicy strawberries, and the waving green corn, as once they had done.
To fight was the one desire of their lives, the one thought that filled their minds. They boasted that none were so fierce and bloodthirsty as they.
"Our arrows fall like leaves of the pine," they said, "and always are they red with blood. Our war shirts have many scalp locks on them."
One day, a dispute arose with a neighboring tribe of their nation. The Peace Wigwam was not far away, but these warriors would not take their quarrel to it, as was the custom. The fighting Indians would have none of the Peace Wigwam.
"Let the women and papooses sit in the sun at the door of the Peace Wigwam," they said scornfully. "Chiefs are for the warpath."
A fierce cry was raised, and the war dance was begun. The chiefs painted their bodies, donned their war shirts, sharpened their tomahawks, tipped their arrows, and tightened their bowstrings.
But by the time they had made ready, the sun had set, and the blanket of darkness had fallen upon them. A council was quickly called. It was decided that they would not start to war until moonrise. So the warriors lay down to sleep.
As they slept, another council was called. This was not a council of men, but of mice.
From long and short trails they came, hundreds and hundreds of mice, for all had heard the warriors boast of their strength.
"Now," said the mice, "we will show these boasters how weak are men, and how strong are little mice."
When all the mice were gathered about the council tree, the leader spoke thus: "My brothers, listen! The Great Spirit did not give men strength, that they should fight and kill one another. The Great Spirit did not make men powerful, that they should strike down and kill the weaker animals. Let us show these fierce warriors that it is the weak who are strong, and the strong who are weak. Let every mouse destroy at least one weapon before the moon shall rise."
At this, all the mice set to work. Snap, snap, snap, went the bowstrings on all sides. Then the sharp little teeth began on the feathers that winged the poisoned arrows. Soon the feathers lay in bits about the ground.
Next, the deerskin cords that bound the sling shots were cut in two, and before the moon had risen, every weapon had been made useless; every Indian had been disarmed,—and the mice had scampered away.
The warriors awoke. Again the war cry was raised. They sprang to their feet and seized their weapons, but found them useless. Their bows had no strings; their arrows, no wings; their slings, no cords.
The warriors who boasted that they were the strongest and fiercest on the earth, had been made powerless by mice.
After the Great Spirit had made the Red Children and had given them this beautiful land in which to live, he sent them a great gift,—the gift of the corn.
Ga gaah, the Crow, claims it was he who brought this gift. He says he was called to the wigwam of the Great Spirit in the sky. A grain of corn was placed in his ear, and he was told to carry it to earth, to the Red Children.
Therefore, as Ga gaah brought the gift, he claims he has a right to pull what corn he needs. Ga gaah says he does not "steal" corn. He simply takes what belongs to him, his rightful share.
And surely Ga gaah is not greedy! He never takes more corn than he wants for himself. He never hides or stores it away. He takes just what he wishes to eat at the time, and no more, for crows never think of to-morrow.
In summer, they are happy in the cornfields, guarding the roots from insect enemies, and pulling the tender blades whenever they are hungry.
But when winter comes, the crows are sad. Many councils are held. Sometimes a council tree will be black with crows. All are so poor and so hungry, that they get together to try to plan a better way to live.
There is much noise and confusion at a crow council, for all the crows talk at once. All are saying, "No bird is so poor as the crow; he is always hungry. Next summer, let us plant and raise a big crop of corn, and gather and save it for the winter. Next winter, crows will not be hungry; they will have food.
"We will no longer take from the fields of the Red Children just enough corn for a meal to-day. We will raise our own corn, and lay by a store for the winter."
And having agreed that this is a wise plan, the council ends.
A few days later, another council will be called. At this, the crows will plan how and where to plant the corn. Some will be appointed to select a field, others to find seed, and still others to plant and tend the corn.
But, alas! When spring comes, and skies are blue, and the sun shines warm, the crows forget the hunger of the winter, and the councils in the tree. They remember only that the skies are blue, and the sun shines warm, and now there is plenty of corn.
Happy and content, they walk up and down the fields of the Red Children.
"We have all we want to-day," they say, "Why should we think of to-morrow, or next winter? We had a good meal this morning, and we are sure of one to-night. Is not this enough for a crow? What more can he ask?"
And the next winter comes, and finds the crows as poor and as hungry as they were the last. Again they are holding noisy councils in the council tree. Again they are laying plans for the great crop of corn that they will raise next summer!
The dog is the Indian's best friend. He is the comrade by day and the protector by night. As long as the Indian's dog has strength, he will fight for his friend.
The Indian says this is how the dog came to take his part.
An Indian and his dogs went into the woods to hunt. It was in the days when dogs and men could talk together, and each understood the language of the other.
When they reached the woods, the dogs began to talk with the Indian. They told him many wonderful things about the woods, which he did not know. They taught him many tricks of the chase: how to scent and track the game, and where to look for trails.
The man listened to what the dogs said, and he did as they told him. Soon the sledge which the dogs had drawn to the woods was piled high with deer and other game.
Never had the Indian's arrows brought him so much game. Never had he met with such success in hunting. He was so pleased that he said to the dogs, "Always shall I talk with you, give ear to what you say, and be one of you."
"Ah, but listen!" said the dogs. "If you wish to be one of us, you must live under the law of dogs, not men. Animals have laws different from those of men. When two dogs meet for the first time, they try their strength to see which is the better dog.
"Men do not fight when strangers meet, they shake hands. As we fight strange dogs, so you, too, must fight strange men, to see which is the best man,—if you are to live under the law of dogs."
The man said he would think it over, and at sunrise give his answer. Indians always sleep before deciding a question.
Next morning, the man said he would live under the law of animals, and fight strange men.
The following day, the man made ready to leave the woods. From the basswood, he made a strong harness for the dogs, so that they could draw the load of game back to the camp for him.
When the sun was high, the man and the dogs started with the sledge load of game. They had not gone far before they saw two strange Indians coming.
"Now," said the dogs to the man, "remember you are living under the dog's law. You must fight these strange men."
The man attacked first one Indian and then the other. At last both turned on him, and when they left him, he was nearly dead. At this, the dogs took a hand. They leaped upon the Indians and drove them from the woods. Then they came back to where their friend lay on the ground, and began to talk with him and lick his face.
The man could not speak for some time, but when his voice came to him, he said to the dogs, "No longer do I wish to live under the law of animals. No more shall I fight strangers. From this time, I shall shake hands with strangers, and bid them welcome. From this time, I shall be a man and live under the law of men."
"Then," said the dogs sadly, "we shall no longer be able to talk with you, and tell you the things that we know. But we will always stand by you. We will be your friends and will fight for you, when you need us as you did to-day."
This is why the Indian and his dog are now unable to speak each other's language. This is also why an Indian's dog will fight to the death for his friend.
Not only is the dog a true friend to the Indian in this world, but in the next as well. It seems that the soul of an Indian on its journey to the Happy Hunting Ground must cross a deep, swift-running stream. On either side of this dark river, there stand two dogs who hold in their teeth a great log upon which the souls pass.
The soul of the Indian who has been kind to his dog crosses the log easily, for the dogs stand guard. As the soul of such an Indian reaches the river, they say, "This Indian was kind to his dog. He gave him of his own food, and the dog always had a warm place by his fire. We will help this Indian to cross."
Then the dogs grip the log firmly in their teeth, and hold it steady while the soul of the kind Indian passes over.
But if the soul of an Indian who has been unkind to his dog comes to the river, the dogs say, "This man was cruel to his dog. He gave his dog no place by the fire, he beat him, he let him go hungry. This man shall not cross."
Then the dogs grip the log lightly in their teeth, and when the soul of the unkind Indian is half way across, they turn it quickly to one side, and the soul is thrown into the deep, dark river.
Many an Indian has been kind to his dog, that he might make sure of a safe crossing on that log.