As long as the birds could remember, Wactu had lived among them. This was a very long time ago, and before the rays of the sun had penetrated the deep mist that surrounded the earth. It was only now and then that the people living in the lowlands could see the golden shafts of light tipping the great mountain-tops as they stood like mighty gods, covered with garments of snow. The snows, melting slowly, formed lakes high up in the mountain valleys, and across the great glaciers and fields of ice all the colors of the painter’s palette passed like a pageant of beauty among the mountain peaks.

For ever so long Wactu had stripped the white birches that he called the “white ghosts of the forest” of their bark and made baskets of it, for what reason the magpie and owl had been very much perplexed to know.

One morning a large timber-wolf called to discuss a matter of importance with Wactu, who was the King of the Kingdom of Animals, and master of the woodlands.

“I’m growing very tired of so much sameness of color among my subjects,” he said to the wolf. “It’s always black or white. Why don’t you go up the mountain and bathe in the lake and roll on the snows, and become beautiful of color? See!” pointing to the rays of light piercing the mist, “See! Is that not more fair than your gray costume?”

But old wolf only grunted an indifferent acknowledgment, for he had little sentiment for anything but his appetite. His indifference caused Wactu to ejaculate: “You are the most acrimonious of all my people. Go bring me a young beaver, and mind you do not devour him before he serves my purpose.”

Wactu had decided upon a plan by which there was to be a change of fashion among his subjects, and he began preparations then and there.

Old wolf returned with a young whimpering beaver-cub, crying at the top of his voice, for Mr. Wolf had not been over-careful in handling the youth, who, being accustomed to the tender solicitude of fond parents, did not understand the rougher ways of one who at any moment was liable to devour him. Wactu instructed the wolf to hold Young Beaver tight as he wanted to pluck a few hairs from his back and tail. This he did, much to the amazement of the beaver, who, though crying lustily, was more frightened than hurt.

“Take him back to his mother,” demanded Wactu, “and mind your appetite does not prompt you to rashness, for I may want you to bring him to me again.” So Mr. Wolf disappeared in the wood.

Wactu always had his suspicions that Mr. Wolf feasted on Young Beaver, for when he needed more hair for his brushes, he always looked carefully for the places he had plucked, but could not find them; so he of course knew that Mr. Wolf had not brought him the same animal. As Mr. Wolf had served him well he never made any reference to the matter.

For many days that followed Wactu made journeys to the mountains, and waited patiently for the color-sprites to dance on the snow and lakes; and as they appeared, he caught them and thrust them into his baskets. There were red, blue, green, orange, and yellow sprites—indeed, all the colors of the rainbow. Several times one end of the arch dipped into the waters of the lakes, and as Wactu knew the spirits of his departed friends formed the beautiful colors, he was careful not to capture them, so waited for the rainbow to pass before collecting material for his interesting undertaking.

When Wactu returned to his lodge, the owls, eagles, and hawks would go far out on the limbs of the tall trees so that he could not hear them, and discuss the state of his mind, for they had “never seen him do such strange things before.” Once or twice they flew down, unbeknown to their master, and lifted the baskets, but, finding them very light, they were convinced that they contained nothing that would do them harm.

Being King of the Kingdom of Animals and Birds, Wactu knew the language of all his people; so one morning, while he was tying up the beaver hairs and making brushes of different sizes—some with long handles and some with short—he called the skylark, the long-eared owl, the raven, the sparrow-hawk, the cuckoo, the chaffinch, the gray wag-tail, the spotted flycatcher, the crested titmouse, the woodpecker, the robin, the nightingale, the blackbird, the crow, and all the other feathered people of his empire, and said:

“My good people, it will be many thousands of years before the mists and clouds surrounding this great world are dispersed by the goddess of the sun. It is my purpose to hasten the work of Nature, by painting all of my people in the colors of the rainbow. Could you bathe in the rays of the sun, I would be saved all my trouble. You would then be like a queen on her throne, arrayed in all the glories of color. Who will be the first to change his or her plain garment for one of beauty? I have collected all the colors to complete Nature’s works.”

“I will,” called Mr. Peacock, as Wactu reached for his colors, and placed them beside him in rows.

“Step right up and I will begin,” said Wactu in a pleased tone. So the peacock, with his long flowing tail trailing behind him, his head bowed in an embarrassed, coy way, approached Wactu, who, after placing him in a position most convenient, began to apply the mystical tints that were to make Mr. Peacock the most vain and conceited of all featherdom.

Beginning at the head, he painted the neck, wings, and body. When the tail was to be renovated, he had to stand up and go around, as it was so long. Once or twice he stepped on it. The peacock winced though it did not hurt him at all.

“There will be no living with him,” said the crow as he noticed the peacock straighten up and throw his head back in a haughty manner.

“Right you are,” said the raven.

“Such arrogance,” said the wren, loud enough for Mr. Peacock to hear.

Wactu, having completed his toilet, asked him to step off a bit so that he could see if the colors had run. This he did ’midst expressions of admiration from some, and, Wactu was sorry to know, suppressed jeers of others.

“Me next,” said Miss Robin Redbreast as she surveyed the plain, soiled whiteness of her clothing.

“Get on my knee,” said Wactu in a gentle voice, for she was very small and timid. “What colors for you, Miss Robin?”

“Red on my breast, and for the others, those that will not soil easily.”

In the meantime, Mr. Peacock, who had always heretofore mingled with his people on an equal social footing, had strutted away, and was standing alone in self-satisfied admiration, his beautiful tail spread like a giant fan. The humming-bird afterward told his mate he heard him say, “I am more beautiful than the sun,” and Mrs. Humming-Bird replied, “I really believe he thinks it is so.”

One by one the birds were bedecked with new garments. The old fogies like the raven, crow, and blackbirds said, “None of it for us,” and went away quite satisfied with their old clothes.

There were many animals who had come out of mere idle curiosity, standing about wondering what would happen to them if old Wactu did not use up all of his colors. Mr. Porcupine felt quite confident that the royal decorator would not insist upon any reform in his apparel, no matter what changes he made in the others.